Barbara Jane Reyes

Pink

Wet work as a euphemism for movies of a young short skirt, showing all her pink, with still-wet newspapers and staring people. Fluttering amateur, brunette teen, spreading her tight pink, her sweet, sweet wet pink. Picture her describing how he wet his trousers, how he transitioned into a man who “longed for the pink” of a sniper’s rifle, the very warning of what may be found lascivious by ascetics. A wet pink rose, unaware of the war that raged inside of her, demanded red carpet thick and pink, quite wet from her being fucked so hard until she couldn’t take it anymore. She had yet to learn that war policy is neither made, nor altered while hospital naked and shaven. Dreampink and pearl fortune spilling, his throbbing gun. The day after the blast, she sat in a dirty shirt watching the adults’ wet clothes strung above. A spigot was the only water source for the tiny pink flowers growing, the basement of girls in wet shirts, hot and blonde, young sucking teen sluts of gangbang galleries. Their frenzied little faces saying stop the war upon teen pussy, pink and shiny, parted petals and swollen flesh. Picture her, slippery, cleaning the floor bent over naked, the color of bunny ears, the color of don’t cry, the color of don’t complain about wet feet, about war games, about problems of fires spluttering out before we bang her wet body in the rain, in the quiet dream, in the pink pieces of the sunset.