Sigh

Sigh. Heavily.
Blame shift
Create a guilt trip to divert
Deny. Deny. Deny.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
Retreat.
Do not allow her to rely on you.
Check in to see if the fire is burnt out.
If not, roast some marshmallows on the flame.
Squish them and mold them.
If it gets too hot again…
Sigh. Heavily.
The heat feels so good.
When she starts to sweat.
But she looks pained, fatigued…
Tell her if she can’t take the heat
She should get out
Better yet, do not tell her this:
Tell her something beautiful
to lull her into a dream
Let her wake to find you one day
perfectly nestled with someone
who likes to sweat.
Tell her it’s not her fault.
She can’t help the way she is.
Deny that you have broken any trust
Deny that this is her bathtub too.
Deny that she has a reason to feel abandoned.
Lie that this woman feels right
The heat she emits is the fuel you
Burn with.
Lie that she is the only one who
Can do this for you.
Or
Lie that she meant nothing to you

This is not the wrong
Way.

This is not the right
Way.

This is the way she knows
How to burn out
And become ash
so she can rise again and fly out of this fire
and light another spark
elsewhere

Control Thing

It’s a control thing,.
How I liked you pulling my hair
Ramming up inside me like a jackhammer,
Repeating a staccato rhythm into my hipbones
that would leave permanent marks
in the floor boards
I wanted to be handcuffed
Stretched to my limit
Then released …
And that’s what you did
But you didn’t do it right
And the control I had was lost
You did it with violence
You did it your own way
You did it selfishly
Far away
Metaphorically
Not connected to the intensity of
This vulnerability
You kept me shackled
By false hope
You pulled me back when I was escaping
You carved promises into me
like knives leave initials in birch trees
Permanent memories
That become the word “temporary”
Eventually.

Butterfly Show

Deep touch,
pelvic massage,
Throat hushed
until she turned him on..
Kissing the collar
of her silk baby doll
body
While they slid
into bubbles
Soaking themselves
Subconsciously weaving
Speaking in languages
They didn’t know they spoke
while they splash with their waves
Triggering buttons
of memories aglow
They touch and
hold with care
these butterfly wings
That tickle with
kisses of joy that they
bring.
The fuel for the consciousness
The wisdom may proceed
from free spirit polished
toes
To thought lines forming
On both their brows
discussing matters in hand
two souls
learning they can.

© 2009 Sonya Littlejohn