Identity Crisis
Humidity lay thick in my nose, like the diction
of your prose and summer is finally here. The sting,
of tongues and cold fingertips: Fall as tides.
The cityscape screams by, like passengers from a
runaway train and I’ll tip my hat and wish them luck:
Words can’t save a helpless man.
This place is lacking as you spackle, on image as thick
as mortar, believing that more is better:
“You’re only a slut if you don’t get a call back.”
So I watch your back, push through hinges squeaky and frail,
like your bones and subtle tone: Uneasy and up against
an edge, like a quiet razor rustling near veins.
Will blood seep through ancient cracks
Before sunlight, cracks my eyes?
I’d say that my pillow, could be your prize once the irises of
those elegant fingers, grow tired of watching him touch
other women: But who am I…
