she wants to fuck my pluralistic universe
all the little movements never build up to a revolution
her talk is all bursting veins
trying to plug up the holes as she bleeds on my floor
I covered her words for her
I built a fence around her
and worshiped her golden calf
making her bloom
she turns her petals toward the sun
her strange fingers feel at me
it is part if her skill set
her fingers want to know about my madness
they want to be entertained
I tell them that my madness is personal
they laugh when I tell them this
if it wasn't for their laughing, I would have killed them