Lilith, Proserpine, Venus by K. S. Keeney

Straighten the nose and push
together the soft rosebud
lips. Brush, with a touch
hardly there, the auburn locks.

Make sure her
eyes are a little
limpid, will you? Not

wistful enough, needs more
tortured longing. Is she soft
enough? Put some fat in
the jawline. Is this to be

accusation? She gets the sharp
chin. Just a few more
flowers and–

 

 

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