Whatever Happened To Neve Davis?

Photo by Anna Shvets from Pexels

If my body was the prison, hers was the asylum. She existed before the godhead. Before the silhouetted night sky. The rain down. The oversaturated earth. Crimson was her aura. The bruise, her color. Pallid and glamorous. Automated fetish. Her mouth honey-sweet but sour to the taste.

She claws herself from the early grave, 2 decades after the fact. Of all my creations, she stood the most problematic.

Funny how you insist on calling me woman, when you have never identified as a woman.

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