Red lipstick, red silk. Forget them.
They don’t matter.
They will be removed,
lost somewhere in the
throes and thrusts of temporary
passion that he will soon forget.

I want to be irresistible,
to be remembered,
to be desired.
My wish will never be granted permanently.
I am unremembered, undesired, unloved.

This desperate wish
of a woman who has already
given up on herself,
submitted to anger and unfulfillment.
The loss of innocence, chastity,
the curse of reaching maturity.

He is only mine physically;
he dreams of someone else.
He doesn’t even realize that I am here
or that that I want to be,
that I want to mean something to him,
to someone.
While he is with me, he dreams of her.

*I am the lust.
I am the passion.
I am the wrath.
I am the sound.
I am the confusion.