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Friday, December 11, 2015

Chapter 4 (Dysphasia)

My heart is always for sale. 
I lurch outward through my eyes and stare,
hoping you'll feel the embers that have not yet gone to ash. 
It's a witless challenge built on fleeting hope and familiar afflictions.
I tell my self that I will make you feel safe and real. 
I can not.

I bare down and give you everything,
thinking there is power in my shameless abandonment of touch and adoration. 
But in the morning you retract;
you are scared that I want you to feel something for me.
And what you feel is not for sale.

My love is for sale.
At the first kind word I release all boundaries, letting you in, hoping you'll tell me how beautiful I am. 
Yet, angry when you don't embolden me like a man. 
My hunger is for sale. 
Its presence so tangible that you can wrap yourself in it and shield yourself from every doubt you ever had.
My love is a currency, easily amortized with every kiss and stroke.
But that's not love. At its best it's curiosity and at its worst it's relief.  

I am not satisfied. 
I am not safe.  
I am not really for sale. 


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