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.
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.