Desperation is such an ugly dress,
beneath it is the reality of disloyalty,
gnash the silence with the opioid of your fetish,
oh what an incredible appetite you have my dear,
incisors and nails,
acting all frail,
your ego needs to set sail,
and there you are,
in the thick of men’s hands,
ever on demand,
and all it took,
was a rejection of,
a painting you,
a showing of,
a man,
telling you where you stand.
Be well with your dress,
or take it off,
you’re naked anyway,
why on earth would the pit of your fire burn with such rage,
if indeed you want this veil,
if after all, you indeed are frail.
Perhaps the frailty you express,
is a need to undress,
perhaps it’s nothing more,
than feeling the hands of your father hold you like you exist.
W.E.
lonerloaner 