I am a selfmade machine.
I respond to notice and attention.
Wires tampered
I say the strangest things.
Proclaiming my love to everyman
I've ever met
and then hiding as soon as they
retort.
I often wonder if I
just do what I think
I am supposed to do.
Perhaps the world has told me
as a woman,
to be constantly yearning;
never satisfied.
I ponder it over each day and night,
I churn it into bites
and swallow.
I find desperation.
Mere affectionate action,
making my stomach bleed.
Though as they waltz away,
I thirst for their hand
to cup my shoulder blade
hand to their shoulder seam.
What is a girl supposed to do.
Love pushes itself against me
and I find myself ungracefully turning it
away.