I wish not to want you
For fear that, when I hold you,
My touch change you golden
With greedy alchemist's fingers.

I wish not to want you
And liberty, command you
From the nobility --
Metallic -- which bars you from love.

A Queen of Phrygia
I sow sin in good nature
Chest hollow for dictums
That confine my pow'r to transform

I've no eyes to covet
Yet I birth my own idols
In chambers forbidden
To those of conscience staunchly pure

I plead you, stay iron
And I'll be happily robbed
Of my talent to turn
Wretched an organic desire

I wish not to want you
As I lay my hands on you
But I have not the gift
To breathe such wishes into life.

Peace:
For the time, there is Silence.

But deep in its bowels lives a sound...

And a word yet unheard
Still holds Violence.

...Its potential for Chaos abounds.

At moments, I fear I am a sociopath.

Do I only feel shame, love, guilt,
Empathy, when buried there at the root
Is myself?

Does this fear itself absolve me of suspicion?
Doubtful.

****.

I have such icy innards.

The ceiling fan is deafening
and my vision is as unfocused as your appeal
both spearing forward in fierce concentration
only to phase into vagueness, midway to their destination

As you continue to speak
my eyes continue to blur the scene
and I hear a series of moods, rather than words:

Anger... Anger... Injury.
Injustice, Pleading.
Righteousness. Vulnerab-- Demanding.
Reason... Reason... Reasoning.

I sit this way, fuzzing out your face
and decide it's effective, attending to your aura
selfishly shielding myself from the specificity of your language

but listening, intently listening, to your atmosphere

ringing out against the drone of that **** incessant ceiling fan.

After one night of many nights all rolled into one
You shoot me through with one pass.
It’s a clean break as I fall into consciousness
Tumbling through unfamiliar seas of painful candor, sovereign guilt
And reckless bliss.

The weighted bullet around your neck reminds me of your careless aim
And my selfish craving to be its target.
The metal is cold against my lips and unforgiving beneath my fingers.
I cannot help but cry when it touches me, weeping with longing from one eye
While the other flows with regret.

Three pulses rust now, as my commitment turns to ash
And a scarlet phoenix blooms from the blood of a union sacrificed
Yet the irony is taunting me, as I see clearly
That I’m gunning for salvation as you engulf me in temptation.

What a dangerous pair we make, we two, the Silver Bullet Brigade
Firing round after round into the establishment
And ruining our souls as we shake to set them free.

Your newly empty chamber is still hot from its release.
I’m unstable. My exit wound is ragged.
But the smoking gun is not held in one pair of hands.

Sometimes,
I wish I were a plastic toy.
Inexpensive, but cheerful.
Why did we outgrow those things?
I would trade the pricey seriousness of my pearls
Any day now
For some cheap happiness.