dog-ma
Who are you writing to?
You, the leopard stuck between
our sheets, without any
animalistic response, let alone
human. Vague romps allow
obscurity to be secure for you.
Make jokes at people's expense,
can you afford it? Is your wit the detector
for what you are seeking? It must be your
missile. Your atom bomb that you coddle
tenderly so no one can set it off.
Always in your sight. Necessary so you
don't expose yourself, only your sex.
And people fall for it, all the way down
the tunnel you built, the shelter you hide in,
you are a puller. A lure, comfortably sitting
in the man's 5-dollar tackle box. Wiggling
your eyes inside people. Imploring sex
but faithfully denying it. You tell man
he can never love or be loved, when you
have the defect, the tungsten
mold they cast you in had a chip,
they never fixed it, because none cared to.
I know you know.
If you can smile comfortably
you know. Knowing
is the most amicable. But
it's just a thought, passing
all too slowly. Now its turned
into a trait, for a couple of years?
A decade? Damn you and your
nostalgic loom, that I want to destroy.
Wait until you don't understand,
there is life. My life,
is not yours, but for some reason,
for all that I know, you are in mine.
Mysterious, velvety red with soft
tan skin and dark eyes.
It's the dark eyes, watery knowledge
of my love. But I feel you
pulling, my threads unraveling
ravaged by the moth who won't
let me alone. GET OUT! But you can't,
or won't, or don't care, about the
"lesser" worries. Is everything and one
below you? Do you walk in this world,
even if in the clouds, terrestrial still applies.
Emotions: thickets of brambles with
thorny thighs. You represent a needle,
mysterious and purposeful. "Hot" is making
me have goosebumps and pressure, cooking
steam, about to pop. I see your face in
my love sometimes, watching, laughing
analyzing. You're infectious. Not in
the good, flippy way, but like a disease.
Inflicting wounds and opening my sores
making them grow and exposing
them to the public. I hate you. I love what you do,
but I hate you. I don't know you.
I want to know you. I want to know how
you brush your hair, I want to know why
you think you're superior. Do you even?
I can see things in your eyes, from photos
you sent. I see you are scared of being
found out, about how you really feel.
Those feelings don't go away unless
you talk to them. Do it at night, when the
prowling cats are out, you may feel more
comfortable. Pricking, prickling, I am cochleated,
you are darting. The folds in your hair
make me think I should cut mine all off
to show you my cards. This is all a fine mess,
but I wish you would go away. You make me
renounce all my softness, I am a stone,
sinking into the earth, happy. The wet dirt
pools around my curves. Still sinking, but happy
because I know myself. I am unafraid of myself.