One by one she
plucked
the thin hairs
choking her
neckline.
They were
wrapped
around her like a thimble of weeds,
strung about a
finger.
The small beetle had placed them there
to stay
and rot
away at her skin
her silk skin sin
slashed was her throat
slit were her thighs.
She did not cry.
She just slowly
surely
securely
plucked the coarse
split hairs
choking her neckline.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem