wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^  

that ain't me babe.

i run my fingers over the hollows of my skin
to emulate the warmth of your electric touch.

i bite my lip with fervent desire
but fail to incite the euphoria
that ensues from your kiss alone.

it drives me wild
moving me madly toward the edge of allegiance.

and with this
i find myself at a crossroads
caught between the valleys of my mind
and the plains of my heart.

to combat this dilemma
i pause
close my eyes
breathing in all things you.

and in a sudden moment of spontaneity
the solution comes to me.
i scale the valley walls,
plant my feet on plains of uncertainty
and run.

to the heaven that lays buried
within the comfort of your arms.