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Remember the first time we kissed?
The beginning of a relationship that was always hit and miss
But now the misses are consistent
And if we're being honest?
*I really don't miss it
Her lips were full; her curves more-so
Her sensitive skin was blushing
This siren's song grew louder but
The world told me "no touching"
Her lips were red but bitten white
Her eyes were still and unblinking
She made the air feel ever hotter
Too hot for rational thinking
Her lips formed words and melodies
As my eyes traced her bone structure
I wanted to kiss her; she wanted it too
But society yelled "don't touch her"
Her lips were beautiful I wanted them so
But she would always be forbidden
An act so sweet and innocent
Is an act never to be forgiven
Her lips grew nearer; mine did too
'Til our mouths were nearly brushing
This siren's song grew louder, still
The world told me "no touching"
Her lips kissed mine so calm and chaste
She saved a damsel in distress
But storybooks don’t tell the tales
Of a girl and her beautiful princess
On society's problem with same-*** relationships
 Jan 2014 Janessa Luna
Randi B
I was young when I learned to sing
to the rhythm of fists
flying through the air
like birds too angry
with the season to call.
I was young when I thought a tune
could drown the sounds
of my mother’s sobs
crashing through hallways
in tidal waves and monsoon misery.
I was young when I carved
songs in the wallpaper
and into my delicate skin.
I turned bruises into syncopated beats
and scars into major scales.
My stepfather hated music
but I was an ornery child,
and I sang of joyous things
just to see if his soul could dance,
but instead,
I got two left feet in swift kicks.
When I was was young I was afraid of sticks
because I thought my body was a drum
to be beaten and battered
to a punishing rhythm.
I was young when I learned
that the taste of blood on my lip
was merely the flicker before the intermission;
the finale would be a grand display
of pomp, punch, and unlucky circumstance.
My mother was a tone-deaf drunk
who never learned to sing.
She belted begging in B flat octaves
like it was the only note she knew.
She wept an ocean of sorrow
as I sang my S.O.S.
“God, save our sinking ship.”
“God, save our sinking souls.”
“God, save our sorry stepfather from himself.”
And when I thought to cry,
I sang my little heart out instead.
I sang of devil's meeting end,
and I sang of daughter's finding love,
and I sang of mother's finding
strength enough to leave,
and I sang to the happy families
that only existed in sitcoms,
because my stepfather hated music
but I hated him far more.
You are my brand of ******,
my taste of seduction.
Your scent drives me insane,
my kind of obsession.

You are my delicious wine,
my intoxication.
Never will be enough,
to satisfy my thirst.

My glorious addiction
that’s what you are.
You brought me to damnation,
took me that far.

You have my heart in your palm
but still… I must resist.
Love and commitment calls.
Its all for the best.

Slowly… the need to step back…
How my heart aches
to stay away, hold back
from you… My addiction.
(c) Maximilian Montes @ October 27, 2009
'Getting over a delightful vice.'
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