It's the what that I want.
It's the who that I am.
I am the victim of my own objectification.
Open cup of feelings, overflowing.
Cappuccino froth, reddening my wrist.
Tomorrow you won't think of me
Wanting to bite your shoulder and hear you squeak against my teeth.
I want to tell you about that girl tonight.
She was the splintered mirror shard of a sad one we both know.
She cried in my arms and I could only give her words from a poster in the ladies toilet.
She saw me for a minute,
Real and transparent.
Then she reclaimed the former view.
Yet you are even more unwilling
To look at me. At more of everything.
Afraid you will find yourself, perhaps?
Afraid to just let go and be
Within this universal phenomenon
That has kept itself open to you for years.
You struggle against my will
And what you know inside to be your own.
Not knowing how much it burns.
Let yourself free.
To take that more of everything
From me. Free me from this burden.
