"How to have a miscarriage" or "Is that all you got"
Living on the outskirts of my soul, an 'X' on a new but faded map, the hardness of my diamond face is nearest to the needs of living (without forgetting). The hardness of blunt diamond is all I feel. None will break this stance.
I pay my own way, so I can't be bribed with the kindness that you hold out to me. And since I don't think that you know your feeling and you want a payback I will never give. you are desparate for maternity. I stand firm.
My soul-space becoming accustomed to the depths of the amneotic sack. It will fall apart, another abrtion, when it reaches the outside. Well, If it reaches the outside again.
My spirit hardens my body with this diamond inflexability. It is not stubbornness but need. It is need without calling on others To answer need is to embrace life. It is a 'Yes.'
But I cannot dance like this. My body cannot enjoy its own blade-like whirring of head thrown back to a screeching stop as the front of me falls in place... drawing of swirls in the air secret grins of buttery pancake delight and the knowing forms of your lips, tense and jittery like an unscratchable tickling itch. You unlike others because you feel at least your aliveness, and not some solution to you. (Which I am not, no one is a solution for anyone.)
But the hard shell over my soul... I can offer a night, a half night... nothing more. I cannot dance with you now, will not use you, could not ask you to wait, as though you (a dancer or a queen, I haven't decided) would wait.
This is life under the whip in another's hand. I could love this and smile through all of it, the fight not to break, not to give in and not to forget. But I don't want another abortion of ripe spirit inside. I need space to dance and breathe again.
Sigh, if only I was Buce Lee or Houdini
But I'm hungry and my teeth are sharp for a reason.
Living on the outskirts of my soul, an 'X' on a new but faded map, the hardness of my diamond face is nearest to the needs of living (without forgetting). The hardness of blunt diamond is all I feel. None will break this stance.
I pay my own way, so I can't be bribed with the kindness that you hold out to me. And since I don't think that you know your feeling and you want a payback I will never give. you are desparate for maternity. I stand firm.
My soul-space becoming accustomed to the depths of the amneotic sack. It will fall apart, another abrtion, when it reaches the outside. Well, If it reaches the outside again.
My spirit hardens my body with this diamond inflexability. It is not stubbornness but need. It is need without calling on others To answer need is to embrace life. It is a 'Yes.'
But I cannot dance like this. My body cannot enjoy its own blade-like whirring of head thrown back to a screeching stop as the front of me falls in place... drawing of swirls in the air secret grins of buttery pancake delight and the knowing forms of your lips, tense and jittery like an unscratchable tickling itch. You unlike others because you feel at least your aliveness, and not some solution to you. (Which I am not, no one is a solution for anyone.)
But the hard shell over my soul... I can offer a night, a half night... nothing more. I cannot dance with you now, will not use you, could not ask you to wait, as though you (a dancer or a queen, I haven't decided) would wait.
This is life under the whip in another's hand. I could love this and smile through all of it, the fight not to break, not to give in and not to forget. But I don't want another abortion of ripe spirit inside. I need space to dance and breathe again.
Sigh, if only I was Buce Lee or Houdini
But I'm hungry and my teeth are sharp for a reason.