I am tiptoeing decency:
mismatched shoes and bricks with string
are a girl who inhales my wrist.
I write her in 2B pencil -
ink too permanently punishing.

We are paintbrushing whitewalls:
identical twins and wrong timing.

She is lunging for my design,
a dictator with rules and regulations
for the newish template of my sex.
Years of tongue-lolling under her belts;
long sucked toffees against the suckers.
She has dark pupils from thinking it once.

We are two openings that cannot hope
to enter one another. Our disease breeds
no satisfaction.

a/n: Inspired by a piece of modern art, a moment in my editing class and an old poem of mine.