I have red bumps all over my figure
Where an arachnid must have bore its teeth
I’m irritated, rosy and desirable in my sleep
My blood must be syrupy and saccharine sweet
I toss and I turn, I itch and I burn
But I understand, an attercop must eat
When have I ever been one
To hold someone hungry, accountable for what they have done?
And in my slumber, what was I to do, run?
Its not as if I sleep with a gun
In the dark of my room, around dawn
I doze with my neck out like an impuissant fawn
I’ve never budged while being feasted on
Not out of fear, or paralysis, but all too consumed in my dreams
My inability to protect my soft skin has become a bit of a recurring theme
From the time I was sixteen
in a cold broken down car
While my body was ravaged, I looked through the fog stained windows and out at the stars
And even now, I’m a vicenarian
meeting unknown women at bars
For someone this masculine, my pain is ovarian
I can’t help leaving every intimate experience feeling somewhat marred
Do I look like I’m begging?
Do I put out a scent?
Is my epidermis just fit for tearing?
Am I hard to purchase and easy to rent?
I hit my pillow every night, blotchier and bloodier than the night before
The table is set, the spiders are hungry, all that’s left is for me to do is lie here and endure.
No comments:
Post a Comment