Poetry, that's it. Just poetry.

Gilded but not gold
We are eating dinner
and I can feel him looking at me.
I can feel him peeling and picking at me.
At these things I called bones,
at this flesh I thought burned.


With his eyes glowing red,
like two hollowed out wine glasses.
May I be excused?
May I be humiliated?
Maybe I should explain.


When it is time,
when the inner workings,
are finally laid out,
finally laid bare;
quickly, and hurriedly.
So as not to scratch the surface,
So as not to leave a trace.
I will accept your diagnosis,
there will be no struggle on my end.


It's no trouble really.
when I get home,
when I take off my coat,
and hang it,
when I slide out of my tights,
and slip into bed.
There is no hurry.
There is no question.
There is no trial,
or jury.

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