Ah, the lost ones.  You come in droves, relentless.

March, little ants: invite yourselves in.
One         by         one explore
the same dark covets.  Contingent passions.
I cannot will myself to turn you away.

I wonder: does the honey have right to be as pleased as the flies?

Painted, brittle shells catch my eye too late:
you swarm from the corners, arouse every wall,
every nook is caressed and the crannies vie
for prohibited affection.
Lance me with swollen heads, throbbing hearts.
I am infested.

Ah, my dear ones.  You munch away at my legs.

Take advantage of my weakened state,
fold me out and pin my body down.
Wrap me in silks to appease you appetite.

You assume that by wrapping me tight, you’ll hold me forever.

Assume yourself strong over me as I writhe,
exorcizing you of fetishes, fantasies and fear
until finally you lay gasping, spent.

Ah, little men.  You extol me in virile thanks.

Unwrap my silk bindings, flesh calling
to the length of your proboscis.  To the pit of your stomach.
Unwrap.  Unwrap.  Unwrap more than you expected and then there is nothing but
a sticky mess.  Touch it, it’s yours.

To kill a pest: lure it in with liquid sweet, and then leave it to drown in its own bold hubris.

I know you all intimately and sadly you’re
each no different from the next.
Somehow you’re always surprised when
you’re climbing in the back door to find
I’ve already slipped out the front.

Explore posts in the same categories: Creative Writing, Literature, Poetry

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