~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.

Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.

Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.

The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,

(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).

Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.

His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.

He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.

Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...

i remember you clearly,
you looked at me so dearly,
but I didn't see the red lights,
your seduction was too bright

those red lights, oh god
but your *** was so good i was in awe,
how could have i been such a fool,
*** so good, when i'd see you i drool

how dare you take advantage?
why, because i was 15, naive, and vulnerable to damage?
the red lights were flashing again, your seduction too strong,
i wanted more from you, but i knew it was wrong

I'm not the first girl, i know
what makes you think you can turn me into a ***
remember freshman year? that twelve-year-old deer?
like a hunter, so swift, so skilled,
she fell right into your trap and lived afterwards in fear

but look at me now,
momma's girl turned into a bad *****,
doesn't even give a **** about an itch,
bodak yellow on loud, beyonce making me feel proud

You're just a symptom of my mental state,

that I've romanticized into love and fate.

Escapism has always been my trait,

avoiding reality until it's too late.


Forgive me, darling, I used you as a distraction,

built glass castles off of mere attraction.

I got attached, written you poems,

to avoid facing my own problems.

But obsessions are dangerous, and I wish you well,

I won't drag you with me into this hell.


So goodbye, dear - a farewell to pining;

in this last poem, there's one silver lining:

I'm just glad I never did tell;

and now I'll rise up from where I fell.

A columbine of sound surrounds my ears - the vacuum's persistent validation wanes in my eyes as they catch shadows that are dyed; dalmatian fur and organized chess; voices arouse at the pupils and I want to see blue as if my eyes were always distantly blue. In entirety you are the ocean, but I pick you apart, handful by handful, and all I see is flesh. Please check the board again for I could have sworn I had you right where I wanted you. To have you now is to have you later - what more could I have asked for, in truth, the whole wide world.