Tweaking the Antidote

We're closer now. To the edge. The drama wears us well. As aching legs spread to receive the favor of hating ourselves. The keys are soft. In the lock. Hesitantly opening the door. The desk is sharp against my wrists. Chasing metaphors that no longer apply. We're all over. All done.

Writing poems to ghosts. Because I have to write to someone.

Just a parody of myself. The only exception gone. The clown in a human mask. Waiting to be laughed at. Hurrying to make a joke of myself before they can.

It doesn't hurt. It just keeps asking why it doesn't anymore.

I don't know how it should feel. I just know it shouldn't feel like this.

So many sails gasping for the wind. But they have so many holes.

We're closer now.

There's a sad little girl in the heart of every woman. Sobbing softly under the cloak of sex. Demanding love as the price for her flesh. Unsure of how she could purchase it otherwise.

Still not there.

Don't want to be.

Pretty enough.