Monsieur, let me be.

This is something

I'm not.

A living canvas of my guilt, and your

hardships-

A scantily

clad girl

affronting the name of your impurities.

Believing in the bare horizon that you once did reveal to me

(In secrecy of course,

but I was always told

by the Machiavellian winds

to trust what others would believe

and that, of course, was you).

I am not this, Monsieur.

This garter you choose to demote

and

remove

is merely an illusion of your

hands

that encompass my thighs

and leave me penniless.

(Like that man we once saw, Monsieur,

in the alleyway, alone with his sitar

& broken bottle to mix rum and arsenic,

praying for rain

and any sort of

cheap delusion).

But oh, Monsieur, how those days ravaged

my canvas of

your guilt

and my hardships.

And I pray for my dahlia,

that you, Monsieur

stole

from the palms of my hands;

softly outlining the creases

splashed across my skin,

tempting the horizon of my innocence to set

with you.

And then you folded them discreetly with yours,

(my hands)

like that map you once loved

my folds like roads,

leading to your soul, Monsieur.

And you showed me Versailles,

a hall of mirrors just for me

(In my dream:

Ne pas craindre, Monsieur).

You showed me it all, chéri,

fields of sunflowers, and perennials and daisies

glasses upon glasses of milk

containing, my salvation in a sense-

oleanders, Monsieur.

And you led me to the south of France,

walking along the shores of the beaches,

caressing the sweet lullabies of the sea

with our toes,

evoking memories which to me were poignant.

And your fingers traveled up up up!

to my

chest, chéri.

Speaking of how beautiful

childhood looked

fixed before a backdrop of a sweet oleanders

tendering and nursing the scene in your mind,

to fit a more

desirable apparatus

(worth wanting or seeking).

And the then you progressed down down down!

beyond the guard of my

dress, sweet darling

Sweetly violating the standards of a prude,

(To my avail, but nobody knows).

The knot of my boudoir became yours,

No longer a dilemma in what the outcome

would have been.

And my lips let out shrill

screams, Monsieur,

as they wrapped themselves around your fingertips

constricting viciously what you were striving to make yours.

And ooh, mon peu de sucre

such breath you allowed

to enter my lungs

and emit once again,

to entangle again around the tips of your fingers.

And, Monsieur,

"Oui" was never an object

in the vocabulary of this charisma.

Assumptions can be deadly, Monsieur.

So here we lie once again, in a field of oleanders,

cases of milk at our feet

(to nourish).

You take control of my hands

A primitive example of what this day

was.

Raw and speechless,

As I was

in my entirety.

So, Monsieur, let me be.

This is something

I'm not.

With your hands on mine

you trace the creases of my hands,

meticulously and gingerly

(in a sense).

And you told me I was

something

that I wasn't.

And the tips of your fingers grazed the folds,

like that map you once loved,

Leading me in all directions,

to your soul.

(To Hell)