Forty-eight: Guilt

You are always there,
dripping down the back of my mind like sweat.
You are always there,
involuntary and invisible.
Or so you think.

You are always there,
behind the smile of  a new lipstick.
Impassioned, it says.
Imprisoned, you say.
I am because
You are always there,
whispering in canvas tones,
drawing your map of complexes,
weaving yourself into me like an extra vertebrae.

You are always there,
one hand pulling my hair so hard
that my eyes roll to the back of my head
And I can see you:
bare lips zipped in so
your eyes do all the talking,
pumping, oozing, spiking, grinding,
evaporating me one pin-prick at a time.

You are always there,
a squeak in the museum of my mind,
rolling downhill to the action;
to my raspberry tongue crouching,
ready to spring and echo your words
back up the drain-pipe.

I am willing to be bad,
just so I too can say, fuck you.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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