But the cove of risk, ruinous, if not rhythmic

a maelstrom. the anti-suitor makes a scythe-song of my blood, his shard hunts my form for whatever fallow beast findable. what is consent that my hooked back & thrushlilts do not argue? if i say to the master, “hurts” it lands one hug around my throat. he requires mirth of me while the ram::m…t::ram of him keeps scraping at my underpink. my innermost, rubied a gaudy hue. & i squall. mouth a jasper cage feathers flood. “wet,” he say but my sex just a flushed tundra. he huge on the breed. he mortals me. i buck like most hard hunts