Sometimes, I hate
That I love him.

He is maddening.
His eyes remind me
Of caramel.
But that’s not the point.
He’s maddeningly
Arrogant.
And suave.
He doesn’t speak to me.
Just stands
And smirks
And stares.

He’s profoundly…
Irritating.
Yes.  That’s it;
Irritating.

His eyes remind me
Of caramel.

Sometimes, I pretend
That I’m perfection.

I know a lot [little]
About what perfection is,
Because I know [think]
That I [may never] have
Seen it before,
But I think [pretend]
That when [if] I see it,
I’ll know.

[Maybe.]

He is beautiful,
wrapped
in alabaster skin—
a satin present
enfolded
in white,
and lined
with black;
sooty lashes
brush
against my fingertips,
papery skin
pressed flat
against my palms,
like a cut out doll.
His breath wreaths
the air,
suffocating my lungs,
and I can’t take it
anymore,
but I don’t step away.
He is beautiful,
wrapped
in alabaster skin,
a perfect gift
that I have stained
with my impurity.