Bare
my words are not flowers
bunched together in pleasing
arrangements for the empty admiration
of friends and strangers
who value nothing
beyond the aesthetic
(their eyes are exhausted
from feigning interest
anyway)
my words are not the gentle brush of your fingertips
but the visceral remnants
of the love that ripped
through me like hell,
untamed and still
smoldering with the embers of every second
you walk past and neglect
to touch me
my words are not silken veils
wherein truth can hide like
the maiden behind her mask,
flashing a haunting gaze at those
who would attempt to see her and
winking, in a whirl of velvet and
musk, turns away
my words are not your safety net
but the kick from the cliff
unrelenting and screaming into
the abyss that you should
finally
look down
(but it's easier, isn't it,
to close your eyes
and just fall)
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