Love's Hollow Grip

Dear Man, 

I am a simply girl; simply complex. 

And when you put your hands on me, I melt like I have not been fed. 

It is simply penetrating, leaving images and impressions for later, 

Of your hands around me, 

And the way, they made my body shudder. 

What is simple for you, is like breath to me- a reason to breathe.  Your touches edge, reeling me in, when I know my intentions are ill now. 

I can not want this, something that is not mine to want, but you press it, and I let that seal impress upon me. 

Your fingers, on my body, is something I need, craving always and hungry, 

As a stray to this worldly place. 

Covet not I remind myself, as I watch old molds unfold. 

You love her, yet reach for me; tease, and say things, she would never want to see, as you put your bare hands around my neck, and warrant a trespass I could be too akin to. 

Your touch is a hollow love, I feel. I'm supposing it is hollow, because you are man, trespassing, and luring in. 

I am a simple girl. Needing love. In a pin full of wolves, and clucking. 

Your touch has been enough to fulfill my days and bring warm-ness back into my heart. I am alive again. Smiling. Baring. 

And now needing, what I shalln't. Your intentions, unknown. But I imagine they can neither be warm nor deep. 

Yet you reach for me, your grip upon my neck and I melt. You give me craving for something unknown. You. 

And I believe that it must simply be wrong. Though everything in me wants to cave. For I am a simple girl. And touch is love to me. Before it breaks into hollow ruins. 

Yet there is love there, is there not? 

I am a simple girl. 

But no Bafoon. 

 

I wonder how much love is for my kind. Mostly because it falls to ruins, as these battles are fought. 

Weary, and old at heart, my youth forsakes me, much like your hands.  

All I need in the world, right there...

Just not available.  

A simple girl. 

A simple story. 

Re-run, as devastatingly tragic. 

She never gets the girl. Never gets the guy. And this world, was never meant to bare her here. 

Peace...

                    a far-off dream. 

The Swallowing

The world continue's to flutter, 

Like film reel, constantly in motion. 

I am the one who stops often, looking around; to look around. 

I must have been a part of a great swallowing at birth; for I am the walking memory of a living laceration, that breathes beneath my flesh, like the blood that keeps my body in motion 

With the film ever running. 

Melting away, has been the singularity of who I am, as I bleed in motion, and look around watching others just the same- they become a part of me; each time, I lose what I was, and become something more, AND scorned. 

A red cape on a high bank, signaling...Erie, as the wind resembles materialized being. 

She is an idea. A revolution. A riot. A reason. But an illusion. 

I am the red cape, not the imaginary girl, of wind you think whom is wearing it. 

The words escape me; for years. 

I have become lost in the long winding within; journeys, like holograms, and thirst as real as sight.

Sometimes, I can no longer see a separation between our eyes. Strangers know my tinge intimately, though not me. And I know their cut chords, their censored worship, their hidden dance, and their gagged voice. I know these motions, better than I know myself, in all my boundaries, and with all my imaginary walls, stacked towards heaven.