a sunken phantasmagoria is no excuse for
the dead autumn leaves you're discarding like
used summer salvations:
warning-red and passion-red and
i wonder if they're not the same in the end.

(just between you and me –
i prefer warning-passion-BURN-red.)

it's difficult to wrap your head around, and
i know men demand their virgins to remain tight,
but i'm still,
i'm still coming now.

down the leg and to the bedpost,
with my ankle all tied.
twisted,
twisting,
the psychological frame work of your concupiscence.

a/n: a little late, but here it is, karissa. (challenge – poetry, "difficult," "wonder" and "sunken.") it didn't turn out at all like i expected, but what can you do.