While thoughts escape
Like water evaporates
There is enough moisture
For my massaging palms,
To grip the pink putty,
And shape your perception.

If there is art in sculpting
The very nature you see statues
Staring back in awe of your philosophic tangents
Wrapped upon the senses, as you can taste words
And hear flavors, while seeing sound
As I play maestro.

Does the soothing touch
Pinching and pulling clay
Release enough dopamine
To unfurl those brows
And turn a frown into a grin?

Can you feel the synapses fire like pistons
Grafting new sensation
Causing involuntary motion to feel like an ordinary choice?
Does the gift I’ve given in the foresight of what was
Now seems so prolific as I change it,
Sculpting you, molding every secret
From you, like god, malleable mud
Into a fire kiln vase -
And break you just the same as terra-cotta

Your sickening words
Are a bitter ambrosia.

Your compliments insult
As piercing as a dagger.

You make me bleed
Divine drops of gold.

You made me holy
To **** my mortality.

I am not ready to die
And be cursed by life.

I am unwilling to serve
Under your command.

I was willing to once,
But now I have learned.

I was a foolish mortal soul
Who was tricked by a god.

It feels like you’re too close to me.
You push everyone else away from me.
They try to move closer,
But you shove yourself between them and I.
Cramped into the space of one person,
We push against each other constantly.
You push me down, smaller. I push back.
Tightly confined, I’m trapped with you, by you.

For you, a hand-made mother’s day card
For you, curiosity about your hobbies and interests
For you, endless forgiveness and grace
For you, tender, loving care during dark moments
For me? Abuse, trauma, and manipulation

“Thank God that they fight over mites,”
Remarks bourgeoisie’s Big Brother.
Proles’ one tool is each other, but
It’s always night if you’ve short sight.

a slave to desires
masters manipulation;
ushers the dark age.