my sexuality is nothing
to be ashamed of.

I have shifted the tide, so to speak--
not held captive to the flaws of men
or the romanticism of it--
I no longer have the inclination
to adore atrocity or
to revel in insanity,
But,
in sanity,
I am numb to these vibrations,
numb to the feeling of happy or sad,
because coping is another word
for "robot"-- I'm the analyst now,
I'm in love with logic,
and so life goes on,
without a further nod from me.

margins are|_________________
home  ­         |________________
to day-        |________________­
dreamy       |_________________
doodles  ­    |_________________
and  ­           |________________
cavalier ­     |________________
corr­ections|________________
or­ some      |________________­
times          |______________­
home          |_____________­__
to my         |_________________
empty   ­     |_________________
word­s        |________________
­and            |_______________­
prettily      |_____________­__
penned      |___________­___
lies.            |_________­_______

Can they read my margins,
see between
the lines
and cut into the edges of
my
conflicted
pages?

                   {I'll never know}

Teeth,
grasping at straws,
grasping for words
but I'd rather they grasp
at my flesh--

Hands,
gesturing while speaking
but oh, if they could
make gestures on my form--

and Minds,
thinking deeply,
but do you mind to
let me forget my sins on your skin?

Let me take these little pieces of you,
let us immortalize not in words, but in
feeling.

I want more cute skirts
to go with my thigh highs and psychotic tendencies.