Fragility, is the residue of love,
when you’re caught between anger,
loneliness and a breath.

It’s no wonder we long for the bind,
to be held down by lust,
tied down and imprisoned,
in spite of the lip service to freedom.

Freedom, that illusion,
that place of nothingness,
the dichotomy,
between a bitten lip,
and a slit wrist,
a nap in the blossom of spring,
a noose in the attic of winter.

Being a slave,
is far more liberating,
far more fulfilling,
than being unnoticed.

Love me then,
with whatever entrapment you want,
with fist and flower,
with tender eyes,
and into your embrace,
willingly, I cower.


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