My existence came
to be like any other tool,
obliging the conveyor
belt, with a uniform
set of expectations (and destiny
carries some to Little Rock,
and many, many more
to Hollywood). I went
up on a shelf, pondering
the foams and lotions of another
possibility passing me by.
Imagine the limitless
curves and crevices of flesh
left for someone else
to attend to. Your needs
must be met with grace,
with a skillful touch, down
where your secrets lie, known
only to me. Is this awkward?
If you only knew
what you were doing. To me,
you are a memory and a ghost
escaped from the tortures
I had in mind. Something unusual
and still familiar; with the concepts
pain and pleasure, I like
to experience both. At the same time,
being prepared for anything
convex or concave, which is an advantage,
I still feel flat. And, smooth
skin left unknown, to me,
you aren’t worth the price
stamped upon the side. Walk
on. Better terms
replace those that are broken.
