I'm in a place of ponies and pirate lore.
All of me quiet and still; untethered.
Unloosened.
Soft.
Rarely am I bared so without first being forced.
There aren't any blue-eyed boys to choke me, no blue-eyed girls to choke.
Only seashells on a mossy path and a high-walled outside shower.
Clink of a spoon against a soup bowl.
Who who whoing of an owl.
There's a restorative importance in being alone.
Rolling, lazing, wet-haired and washed-clean-pink in my island bed I'm untouchable.
And oddly, I've no desire to be touchable again.
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