fixations. Always at the back of your mind or on the tip of your tongue, waiting for the slip waiting for the release from conscious sensibilities and clean, polite talk. Obsessions, Addictions perpetual temptations the things that help you sleep, or keep you from it. Gives you a poison ivy kind of itch which a scratch both cures and causes. Too soon there’ll be blood under your fingernails and a ravenous rumbling in your gut. Will you feed it? Will you feed the flames of the things that burn you alive?
Faith flays from your forehead. You are beautiful when you are anxious. We’ve been assigned our roles and I am nothing short of the other.
I am encoded across her chest in Morse and you will unexpectedly find yourself mouthing the words of another language. Somehow you’ve learned to read the signals of light, sound, remorse.
Me? I’ll be fine. I’ve been on this southeast corner before of a busy intersection, cursing at or being cursed by love, that ghost who never crossed the street with us.
Patience is the poor girl who waits. Free is in my boots. I have streets to articulate. I have a pack of wolves at my back and one who slushes behind me. When I turn the corner, he’ll call out, “Lady, where you goin’?” and I will be tempted to answer.