Ugly Ducklings

Her dress about her shins. In muted screams. In fits of loud rain that threatened to break the clasp her thighs held on her vagina. That musty breadbox littered will the stale crumbs of digested skin. The tall braille of an erect penis telling loud stories to blind fingers. In the stumble of her breath over the peaks. And the shush of her heart in the valleys.

Her underwear. Well, she never wore it. The grin of her breasts safe enough she thought between the cross of her arms. The advance of the rook. Two sips away from happiness. The sharp of the bishop. One square shy of clarity. The omnipotence of the queen. The ugly duckling cooing from within the forest of the sheets. The panic in reality. The calm of indifference. Paper demons wearing angels drawn in ink.

Her wrists that much redder. Her dress still listening. Intently. To the shiver of her legs. As her clothes dared to leave her. A small stone in so many squares of play. While the night speculated.

On the importance of ugly ducklings.

Given the likelihood that they'll never change.