I tire of polite, controlled happiness,
the kind you take to baby showers,
to church,
to the dinner table or work.
Give me joy,
give me feral elation that lasts for hours.
Turn me inside out,
I want to read it in the viscera,
and play with the flesh that shows
how bone deep contentment takes root in the soft places we ignore.
Because I believe it would flower.
Bright yellow blooms in blood that show,
to put it simply,
that an endless smear of lukewarm smiles,
well...
they can't ever be enough.
Give me one cheek aching grin,
and I'll pay you in kind.
God, I'm tired of elegance,
I don't want to be refined.
About the Creator
S. A. Crawford
Writer, reader, life-long student - being brave and finally taking the plunge by publishing some articles and fiction pieces.
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