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Feminism
January 30, 2009
He moves with such
Indecision, prowls the
Room like a tiger, and I'm
Already drowning under his
Grasp. He is so firm, but
Fluid, and it is cold
When he dips me into
His clutch - his eyes reek
Of every story I've ever
Been told - the realization
Burns with the patter of his
Haiku tattoo - and
I know he has broken
Me like he did her, fragmented
With the ache of
Delicacy. For once, I don't
care.
(I'd rather die on my
Feet than live on
My knees.)
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