Inevitably they would burst on my fingertips, painting my skin purple and sticky with their juice. One time, I gave in and rubbed them along my arms and legs and face, painting myself someone new. Covered in blackberry juice, I felt like a faerie. I ran through the woods and flew though the trees, inhuman and free. When I dived in the creek, my disguise dissolved and dyed the stream magical, twisting over blue rocks and lilac minnows who kissed my toes till I felt loved.
Remembering that love, I eat berries till my stomach is swollen and ripe to bursting. I feel sure I would bleed purple too, if only there was someone to pick me out of this forest. Tall trees wave their branches with admonitions. The leaves whisper of protection and safety that cannot be found on the outside. They need not bother. No one will pick me. I wish someone would pick me.
(from "Fruit-WIP")

You ask what we women do in there, and I’ll tell you for it’s no great kept secret. We powder our nose and freshen our lipstick. We check our face for imperfection. We look ourselves in the eyes to make sure nothing’s showing through, no hint of our discontent. But mostly, as if from some leftover echo of corsets, we remember to take the time to breathe. To calm, to be, to let down façade, before we straighten our hair and leave to go back into that dizzying world of your satisfaction.