Night stretched out across the land like the warm blankets I use to cover myself when I sleep.

I played

a thoughtful game

with a wine glass and the broken beast of myself.

Lacing my feet up onto the cushion of soft designer silk that lay against the couch as though they were lovers.

I was pierced

with the unforgiving solitude of being the only child at a large table.

The conversation stirred to sex and drugs

and I pretended to be meek

useable

ready and willing to flack off this hard shell across my face and become new again.

There was a voice in my head

yelling these sentences to me

and sense then yelling.

"Write it down, write it!"

"No I want to live not write."

"Write it down, write it!"

My heart was like a stone

praying to be rid of his all to ready hand underneath my thoughts,

clutching,

clawing,

to get out.

My mouth was his desert

to pleasing and self-righteous to be known as any other thing.

I sighed,

to lazy to scream out and stop this madness

but I remained unsalted

against the thick lining of his skin

like un-appraised china ruff to the touch.

My fork slid across my plate,

unpleasant

wild thing that I was

refused this injustice

but still I was silent.

His hand went closer

smoothing out my many curves with his stringy fingers.

My pen was crookedly placed in my pocket

and I wished to have it with me again,

so I could be rid of this voice.

"Write it down, write it!"