Lust

It used to be I ached for you
I lived for you
there was nothing but you.

Soul, it seems Time is our enemy-
You don't desire me as you once did.

The golden glory of my naked limbs
do not inspire Lust anymore.

Lust- my Love-
that Deadly Sin
that voluptuous goddess of a woman
decked in tight black attire of the business kind-
She's got work to do.

She is an evil little package,
long of leg
firm of breast
the very picture of temptation-
I long for her.

She whispers dirty nothings in your sweet ear,
but it seems to us
that you have gone deaf to her dirty knowing ways.

I miss her
I miss her touch
I miss her touching me
I miss her touching me in the perverted ways
only She knew how.

Lust did not fear throwing up my hemline in a public place
Lust did not judge
Lust was never too tired
Or oblivious.

But Lust, sick of your ways,
and your immunity to Her, said:
"Fuck this. I'm out"-
packed up Her belongings
and strutted on mile high stilettos
out of this place.

Oh my Love,
I still have that ache for you
it burns unabashedly in my most private of places,
but I fear both Lust,
and I,
are sick of losing the battle.
Tired of being your forgotten Eve,
no perky zing of fruit in my mouth.

And so Love,
Tiredly, I throw my belongings into a bag,
and slip out that door.

Naked Man

Who is this man who sleeps in my bed?
Where did he come from?
How did this come to be?
Sometimes, it's hard for me
to make a connection
between my life as I know it,
and the long lanky form,
that is so comfortable in my presence,
that he sleeps in the nude.

Oh, naked man,
What will become of us?
It seems I am inconsistent,
a curse perhaps,
of my gender,
or possibly the fault of the hamster that runs my brain.
He's always running somewhere.
Around in circles on his wheel.

I have trouble picturing the future,
even while looking at you,
so helpless,
so without defense,
so comfortable,
under my scrutinizing gaze.

You sleep,
pretty naked man.
Go on and rest your weary head.
I'm afraid no such comfort comes my way.

Mirror, Mirror

Shed off the shrouds of deceit,
and gaze intently at my nude form in the mirror.

The mirror,
that liar.

That girl,
she can't be me.

Where are the curves that invite
hands to slide down from
full breast to smooth rounded hips delicious?
Where, pray tell mirror,
did these pointy sharp hips come from?

they look like weapons.
Sharp-
ready to wound.
Collarbones like switchblades.
The stomach too flat, and my Lord-
What is that posterior?
The shape is right,
the size is not.

Mirror, you lie to me.
That woman-
She looks hard.
She looks sad.
She looks mean.
She looks troubled.
She does not look like me.

I smile.
I laugh.
I make merry.

That lady with the dead eyes,
so critical,
the hard jaw...

No-I deny it.

Instead,
I go to the closet,
grab clothes to cover my shame.

The pants need to be belted to stay up.

Damn you mirror.

Will is Weak

In a fog I realize:
My curvaceous body has gone
straight linear on me.
Sharp angles protrude
where once I was so soft.

My will is weak.
My head aches.
My feet complain at every step.
My stomach churns.

All of this:
and yet...

My will is a scrawny-armed teenage
pussy.

I do nothing to fix the wrongs.
The pain reminds me of:
the work I must do,
the things I must see,
the fleeting emotions I want
to catch like butterflies in a net.

I'm beginning to appreciate right angles:
Switchblade shoulders,
Glinting sharp hipbones.

I feel the burn to better myself:
take an art class,
do community service,
sleep around.

I cannot subside the ache.
So unsettling.
Cannot run.

Instead,
I have to embrace
this strange fog of sharp angles.