Thought: the product of anxiety
Leaves lines across your putty face
I could smooth with a smile but prefer
a never-ending grimace.
You tell me I am purple,
irrational
a bitch
a beautiful girl in a beautiful bra
But you remain unsatisfied with your definitions and
rest your anxiety on freckled hand.
Never did you look so down.
A freckled hand: the product of eternal blush gone fickle.
So he tilts his head, and never does he look so down.
So he forgets to annunciate as he mutters from his stuffy nose.
High pitched nasal insults with vocal chords gone soft.
I can love him
But I understand him better when I don't look.
So I leave the stoop and leave the state
with distance as the product of indecision.
Because if I wanted to I would have.
I may be responsible but deny blame
Because you and I both know that the woman is responsible for production
and we are what we create.
But I keep my tongue still because
I am taught to hate the shit that escapes.
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