Something subliminal
in the way a man smells;
his odor, his  pheromones,
his testosterone seeping from under his skin
massaging my nasal passages
making me dreamy and sleepy
and tickly inside.
There's a unique quality
so pure and primitive
in the movement of a muscle
accidental
not for show
so private, the tension in a bicep.
It acts without the knowledge of being watched
and would move if no eye were there to witness,
but sometimes
we do
and we see the knobs of strength pulled tightly under skin,
dying to burst through flesh
and reveal masculinity to the sun.
Some kind of trivial beauty in the sweat on a face
after a long day outside
building a fence
cutting grass
tackling an opponent;
the liquid rolls down limbs
out of pores
drips
onto ground, nourishing the grass,
enticing
a nectar caused by labor and struggle,
grunts and power
energy.
Something so simple
in the sight of a male,
sturdy, like a house
a home to be enveloped in,
protected from the elements trying to rust our joints.
The testosterone fuels the movements, the thoughts,
and desires.

His eyes do not register my being
but his mind is buzzing with my existence
I can tell
by the way he stares, stressed, forced into the distance with attention emphasized on peripheral vision.
Oh, I am right here
and he knows this
he is all too aware that I am wearing the pretty blue skirt today,
that the other young men are paying million dollar compliments
that are deposited into our little bank of wins and losses of humility,
one stab at his ego,
one illuminated point on the score board for my courage.
He pretends not to hear
my laugh
when his jaw tenses and he refuses to join this plane of energy
but rather pretends that he is in a dark, sound-proof cell
where he belongs
where I do not want him
because I get a sick little thrill,
a lurch in the sadistic region of my brain
to see him struggle so,
to witness a weakness in his steel, tough exterior.
You have a heart
and it is beautiful.
I want to share this sensitivity
but if you are incapable,
I would like to get a torturous, self-inflicted pleasure
at your lack of interest;
One deep, throbbing dagger in my tender, juicy heart
slow and painful
all for you, my dear.

The years of playing sleepover in the parents' house are ending rapidly
I must now grow up.
I am no longer a young child, but an aging kid, growing older and older
until water gun fights and Hello Kitty are no longer acceptable
but creepy, immature,
and unseemly for the candidate of an office position.
The rules of hallways, bell schedules, bathroom passes
are obsolete
in T-minus
how long? Too long? Too soon?
Somewhere in the in-between, if I had to make a publicly educated guess.
What happens when I step off the magic carpet
and into the lecture halls with faceless classmates,
bespeckled, bearded professors
who do not care if success is granted?
Will I fall down those steps?
Will my mind become quick drying cement
rather than glue
and trap all ability to think in the concrete with imprinted initials and cracks with grass growing?
I do not know my own future, and it is terrifying
panic-attacking
stealing my REM and disturbing my circadium rhythm.
All to do now is sit, and wait
for fate to catch up with my worries.

Not a biological accident, I breathe with purpose
sipping in the ethers and spirits
chakras and energies
smoke and incense.

I am no fool, only inexperienced,
and really,
can you fault the naive?
We don't know what we're missing,
let alone can feel the gaping emptiness that the aware  suffer to know,
and sometimes
I rather enjoy being utterly incoherent and oblivious of reality.
Not dumb just numb.

I do not require much, only sunlight, oxygen, dirt
and ofcourse guilty pleasures
chocolate
fashion magazines
shirtless rugby players.

I am no cosmic miracle
only a human who deserves respect and decency,
a mix of my mamma and my dad and a bottle of Merlot
shaken and popped in an Easy Bake Oven
I am just a little old me and a little old maid
and I can only learn to accept such facts.

There are instances of my brain exploding into millions of rubbery blobs of mush.
Sometimes my mind leaks through miniscule cracks in my skull
caused by incredulousness, or intensity,
or a milisecond of  thought that traveled far too close to the realm of insanity.
Blessed be he who can not think, for he can not feel frustrated.
He will not try, or object to the rules of laws of that which is taken for granted,
claimed to be known as fact
even though we all can see it's *******.
Once, I even died a little bit, seeing a bird floating in the sky,
because it was just too magnificent and startling a phenomenon to be handled lightly:
these miracles of nature that don't require formal lessons or user manuals printed in multiple languages.
Blow my mind, **** it real good and share a cig afterwards.
My cranium can handle enough
but not all
and it prefers the experience
of profound enlightenment.

Father time abuses his starry-eyed children until lips split,
bruises leave teachers feeling uncomfortable and unnecessarily involved.
Drink up the rocket fuel,
burning makes aches evaporate like **** on pavement,
amending memories until they are only fuzzy recordings of grinning cartoon cats.
Smiles are happy, so true,
but mirrors do not act on impulse so yours must require some more work,
mine was slashed on eons ago,
back when the dinosaurs were glorious and people walked on all fours.
Grindgrindgrind
gnashing teeth and splintering calcium,
he took note of the emotion,
accepted
and moved along,
unharmed by reality
too ignorant to accept absurdity.
A smart lad, curious
he built me a tug boat
to tug along the rivers of consciousness
though I'd rather the alternative
of sweet sweet bliss
and a fistful of throats.

He was none too cute
even in the dark,
the flashing indigo and yellow lights showing the hint of  possible redeeming ****** features.
Me thinks he was high,
me knows I was low,
down,
mind stuck in the muck thinking on a silly boy.
He appeared interested in dancing,
and hell, I love to dance
so we did.
I meekly allowed his hands on my waist
they were unintrucive, innocent even, right?
The sensation of man bones on my jeans was exhilerating and unfamiliar
and I felt so inexperienced but willing to learn;
the door to male touches had been opened and I never wanted to remember life before.
My body responded without the instruction of logic,
only feeling,
and I wanted to make him burn.
He, the nameless figure with ******* dragon chest tattoo and nasally voice;
he will not forget this great dancer.
And I did not forget
the one I tried to escape:
the one who would rather dance alone
than with me.