I can taste taste taste the burnt coffee brew on his hands/ the crushed sentiments of his ego at my lips doors./
Now I've waited for this scene for this room to gather its walls and its rats and make of me/ The Closet/ a piece worth transformation into furniture/ make me a part of the gathering that had no subject to whisper but Intimacy/ in her flesh nightdress/ in her freting neurosis/ at the arms of a man crawling to service/ to the crop, to the berry basket/ though I'm involute by the mother's reverent chastity she preys into my mouth my nostrils pinched close/ by the precept that I, is easiest petal to defile/ is delicacy to be served on a plater./ This body is but a bench that is repugnant to everyone but time's trials resting/ but for desire to breath enduringly without a fire to seccomb to/ I die a wood cut/ a decorum in the skin belt/untrodden/ balanced/ lacking/ a natural in my oddity and my grudge for love/ for selfish arms/ for compliments prior me stepping into my morning edifice of hairdo, kohl, prest gums, happy girl-made glitter and habit/ for a show were I wouldn't be the foil character/ clinging to my madness so I could be understood/ so she could have an excuse to compose out of me a disposition at hand./ This act has a room in its center/ other things too/ and they all belong to me/ he does too/ but best of all I do and I allow the tasting/ I do.
13/5/2024