A Plea To Be Gentle

Smell that?  It is desperation:
the essence of the best of sin.
My words I twist to fit the mask I wear–
a second skin.

For should you see the face 
beyond my face —
the tangled web I’ve tried my best to hide,
the bareness of this bone and skin and soul —
each time I slipped, the conversation died.

Do not make me form attachment
To you, whose words are works of art: your traps 
designed to snare and shatter
this feeble thing,
this blind, defenseless heart.

Fin.

A prelude to my planned personal essay: “A Kind of Fluttering.”  Note that when I plan things, I don’t usually follow through with them, so this might be all you get.
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