The simple soft curve
of your lips
smeared with cinnamon chapstick
and a body that writhes
under my tongue,
And you don't mind
that it takes two hands
to lift up my belly--
spilling out through fingers
cake in a pan that can't hold it
sweeter for all the effort
hours slaving over this skin
that so petulantly refuses love
that so often looks like a
grisled demon glaring out from
an accidental mirror glance
but you are a dream
just as much as this
incense smoke that
evaporates into the walls
And I can only
drool over you,
and imagine your face
and wonder
how the moonlight looks
dripping over
unclothed shoulders
demure, and pure,
and everything I'm not
and won't imagine myself to be
the ugly duckling
always makes me cry
fat little fingers clenching
wide and glossy hardback
what cygnet raised by ducks
would ever live?
Mother finds that ill shaped egg
squashes the life that shouldn't be born
oh fuck, I'm too morose
to make this dream come true.
No wonder the swan
never bloomed under my wing
and reached its long neck
to behold a reflection
that screams beauty
and finds its home--
About the Creator
Felecia Burgett
Novice writer, amateur novelist, poet, article writer, dabble, and animal lover.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.