Is desire such an empty thing?
Each time a star falls
it is greeted with a wish
and there is no end to the greed.
I am a window without resolution,
a door impeded and without passage,
a slide that spirals down into infinity.
If I were nothing would you love me?
When I am called to action
I find myself a mitten instead of a boot.
Were I to crawl I might find my dignity,
the shards of an ego gone circumspect.
Why do you look at me that way?
I am not a plaything, a secret
willed into existence
by a disreputable muse.
You cannot strip me of my roots.
My curves have worn me down.
I am sparse, thin in inflation.
There is no use hiding my face
behind yours anymore,
no use at all.
Together our skeletons make a nest
but it is without warmth
that we lie frozen back to back
facing our respective walls.
I keep catching shrapnel.
The wars we carry inside of us
are so easily misplaced
and I am tired of being a mark.