you arrive as if out
of some mystical land
junkie poets dream of
while wasting their minds away.
as i waste my mind on
love and life and
worthless indulgences.
out of pleasure, a sense of
wrongdoing, of actions that
oddly excite me, i lust you.
outside i lust you.
inward. waiting.
is love too powerful for me?
like a battery operated fully
digital mechanized twenty-first
century miracle, love
comes with instructions in chinese.
and the child that i am
cannot know how to handle it
while the woman that i am
pretends it's not a noteworthy
event. but it is. i love you.
because i can't have you?
perhaps. because you're you?
definitely.
waiting. but i cannot admit it, the
waiting. and you speak of love
and make me believe it's nothing.
so you don't love me, because
love is something. so i wait.
like the silly girl, i will wait.
while you don't care, i wait.
i'm that toy with the chinese
directions, but you understand.
and you use me. you ignore me, and
hurt me at will.
so you see, you lost me.
