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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