I
run
my
hands
down
my
open
thighs
I
spy
Bright
yellow
A
bruise
Is it the sun?
Or a vast pool
of mustard
that I will dip into
with my french
fried dreams
Pausing
on the precipice
fantasy
lurks around
all corners
suddenly stops
the touch
stream
hit some
Rough parts
and did not want to pour
over them
I am itchy
and
want
nicer
hair
My soul
ran dry
the vampire
I kept house with
drained me
my sexual
power
withered
but
I
did not die
I must
rise
up
the long hard
life
I
left
behind
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