Self serving hisses (kisses)

I don’t know what it is
that gives you the right to roar
like an ocean in the delicate whorl of my ears
when neither your tongue nor hands nor
that part of you which your pride depends on
can scatter me like, what was it, stars?

Your face is set hard in the stones
of sorrow compounded. Decades,
hidden behind what you wish you were,
a fortune in copper pieces flung down a hole.
All to end up in a personal hell,
why drag me beneath the surface as well?
Self serving instincts
and a girl with the urge to take off her
clothes.

My dress was on the floor for you,
buried in woes.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s