Dismiss me - slave with the golden letterhead
gypsy girl, running across the street in a panic.
Frantic, and violent
my honesty bores you,
makes you think that I
(I am aren't I?)
Twenty years to drown by
and things new scare me
but I hold my head up and re-work it,
jerk it back into place, the perks of being an all too adaptable person
in the face of my backcountry.
I'm a girl with a lot of wilderness behind her
but I like how bright the big city is;
unlike the forests (of my slave days)
you can never get lost here.
what I say is real (what I write, to)
I'll cup my hands
over your dry lips
and let you taste
what my father does;
what men do when they think I'm not looking,
when they think I'm not listening -
the way the moon always rises
between my two window panes
yes, that is what I am.
My sighs make you cry,
to have wept
for someone else's ever glazed joy of letting it out.
of my propriety
just another stepping stone in your inventory;
as nothing more then a cheap delight between the verses;
and now - Wow, you say.
Do I thrill you?
Chill you as I spill it across the succulent letterhead
the bed is there -
and my fingers feel like lead sometimes.
Your refusal to understand
dismisses me (slave like) as just another adornment
but still a liar - am I?