It’s been two years, now.
I’ve lost all sense of joy & confidence,
It must’ve faded with my orgasm;
I have so little of those things, now...
Every move that I make is in longing—
With a greedy clutch on my own freedom.
My desire to be possessed strikes,
at odds with my fear, and cripples me.
My searching hands have brought nothing to us but the faint tremor of despair.
Eerily, my mind wanders through a world of wants.
I, I, I...
Is all I can say.
Me, me, mmm…
All I can see.
drunk & dumb,
I contact you—
The last word,
Still reaching for your tenderness, like a child too tired to walk.
If your respect was ever my concern,
I wouldn’t be writing this now; knowing full-well that you will read it sooner or later,
and realize that like a few others, this prose is to you.
Vague enough, my journals have become a disguise for love-letters;
and again, respect becomes the subject in question.
Where is the line, here?
No boundaries are given, you say that none are crossed—
Yet, your eyes avert now in my presence.
There’s an air of discomfort between glances… Maybe it’s only my own—
All abashed over this relentless infatuation.
The silliness of it— fills me with a red-hot embarrassment, ‘
cause I know you know.
I’d be your whore if you asked me to.
I would revere the title,
wear it proudly like a crown a-top my ass…
Alas— I can’t interfere.
The word means so much to me, in reference to you;
yet I wish it meant less to you in reference to me.