The pre-moon, now moon has me dripping silver and welling in the feminine. Waters breech the stories that have been staked down in the sands of my sensuous. Soaked, the flattened flags now quilt the sea and I am left covered in the imperceptible stitches of memories not worth conquering. I am no longer able to wrap myself in patches of pity, petty, sometimes even pretty tales of how I came to be.