I choose how to use the striated muscles of my arms,
Who to reach for, when to hold myself,
But the smooth muscles of my gut I do not control,
The peristaltic waves of wanting, ripples through my core,
I do not author. I only feed.
Hungry, I mistook the muscle of your heart for smooth,
And placed my fingertips against it,
Wanting that frictionless glide to be beautiful,
Figure skaters viewed from a distance, seeming effortless,
Not recognising that you were letting me slip.
You dragged me across the glassy ice, bejewelled, spandex slick,
Falling as you pulled me towards you,
Forever in retreat. But crystals catch, and face down,
I saw the flotsam locked in place, the dark current below.
I heard the shell groan, the fissures crack.
You mistook my smoothness for softness, rabbit-eared
Beneath your lips. My sublimation
Rendered me ethereal. But cold condensed me.
My deposition rimes us both in hard frosted crystal,
And the striated muscle of my heart contracts.
About the Creator
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