i.

your trachea is an intelligent
maze, forever shifting,
always changing the story

leading me to dead ends,
full stops,
burlesque flowers veiled
in sarcasm.

it was only every so often
you'd speak bullets,
send them flying my direction.

now you wear this jacket of blood.
your prisoned rhythms and
self assured gait
reveals a man of small mind.

ii.

but the truth is
you are a minotaur,
this assortment
of fruit doesn't stand
a fighting chance.
you kick them away
with your hooves.
you dance and stamp
on the letters i hold
out for you.
you grab and smash,
you take what you feel
is your own.
when my hands reach out
in love
you pierce them.

iii.

and you condemn me for it frequently.
i am the sum of all
my parts (which isn't much):
two arms, two legs,
the passive voice,
an impatient flicker,
am i to assume that i'm
some kind of non sequitur?

your militancy at the gate
keeps me ambling for
some sense of self,
some sense of direction

(why am i still with you
when you allow yourself
pleasure through these
trite renditions,
a touch, a kiss,
your unwanted whims)

everything you touch
is no better than a cracked mirror,
a mess of skewed perceptions