you feed me by hand
I don't care how little
or how much
because this is the most delicious thing i've had in a long while.
you are at fault for
the overflow of trepidation collecting across my tongue that accuses me
the mess i've made of my head assuming.
I have equal fault and take the guilt as it comes
like when you benefit me with conversation
shower just enough discipline and attention
to guide me slowly but surely
steady
or when i procure my own fantasia
blissed in my own imagination
anticipation
curiosity
of what satisfies your appetite.

There sits a box
beneath my bed
where I gently place
each one of you.
You are all
beautiful
in your distortion.

I pop each of you
out,
every once in a while;
like ice cubes
from a tray.
You slither and melt
into me,
your frozen waters;
an ocean of time.

I'm taken back
to when
you all meant something.
All my deceit and pain
tied tightly
with a
velvet ribbon;
offered
as a gift.

I disguise you
with costumes
so grand
you appear to be
a commodity,
property of
trickery so dark.

I keep you
hidden
in that box
beneath my bed
where you can't escape
without my key.
You only come out
when my demons
won't sleep;
their elusive charm
so seductive;
a perverse
mutilation
of thought.

Pad-locked
and secret
are the lies
I've told.
The lives
I've lead
and those I've
destroyed.

Underneath the rubble
and debris
breathes a girl
so lost,
squandering herself
aimlessly;
without reason.

So in the box
you will stay,
wrapped up warm
in blankets of
regret,
until the time comes
to clean out
what lies beneath
my bed.