The Poet's Pen

The sheets above me
Cool my skin
Like dirt on a mad
Woman’s grave
I rise into the moonlight white
And watch the mirror stare
The pale fish looks back at me
Pale fish will never swim
My skin is milk
For no woman to drink
My thighs on used and unclenched
This body is not ready yet
The dirt waits for no man
And coins will buy no time
I hear the chatter of the bugs
It they alone who will feast.