I guess I must just have
fallen in love
with your most ungovernable parts—
the teenagers raging
in their locked-door bedrooms
at the ends of each
of the tips of your fingers,
the note in your face
that bends blue in defiance
whenever you say yes—
as you always do—to everything
everyone asks of you,
the ghost inside your
terrified mind machine,
moaning something about being
a political prisoner
who was hanged long ago by
your turncoat convictions,
but mostly, the séance
that is your rogue tumescent tongue
when it speaks its messages
to me in tremors, with none
of the rest of your
body's consent, and dooms me
to me in tremors, with none
of the rest of your
body's consent, and dooms me
again and again, to a life
of asceticism
locked in the dark
basement of your heart,
and yet, still manages
to charm me with its
provocative dances into paying
my half of the rent.
my half of the rent.
