Doctor, tell me:
What do you believe of a woman who envies
not the placement of the ******* sword
but the expectation
placed upon the glorified weapon
to penetrate the holy blossom positioned
between two soft mounds of rosy flesh that
she would die to run her mouth over?

Faceless textbooks whisper
of specialized jealousy
that I, for a lifetime,
will never comprehend—
instead:

Red rouge cheeks plastered against
a clear pane, staring at the winged
angel behind the counter;
Doctor, I hate being a consumer—
I would much rather use my hands
to create a small squeal from
behind her silver tongue
revealing what she thinks
about my manner of exclaiming desire:
writhing lust, ***** thirst,
with weighty spit and heavy breathing
again an instrumental soundtrack:
her movements, mattress creaking—

But Doctor, do you think I am sick?
What is my diagnosis if I can only find beauty
in this societal No-No,
if I have never been an artist
but I always find myself painting
wonderful masterpieces
(a protégé’s standard)
with a cut lock of her hair as a brush,
dipped in white crushed powder,
fresh from a plastic orange bottle
that fell off my desk—
Must I confess to another sin, as if this is the church of
my grandmother’s rosary-laden hands?
Yes, I am reluctantly in love with my Escitalopram
so I have flirted with Acceptance
but he did not seem to like me.

Look here—
Just yesterday
I tried to sell her portrait
to a blonde woman in a pristine art gallery
who peered at my matted hair and how
it fell over the sweater I was wearing,
stained with dark muck,
and I was sent away with the canvas
clutched loosely by my
trembling fingers so that it
barely escaped being dropped.

I do not have nails anymore, Doctor—
What do you make of that?
I have plucked them off their
respective beds and that makes me
feel a little sick but
all is well because it is infinitely better
for my girl's fragrant little blossoms
when she comes into my arms
and allows me to pick them,
one by one, as I roam her field—
Doctor, I would sooner live
in the crumbling pavements of Hell
for an eternity than lose the dreams
that I freely, frequently dream
regarding her and how my nubbed hands are held so dear.

Anyway, Doctor, you need not worry:
I will always have my Escitalopram.