My fear that I am not the one you seek.
Surround yourself with a specimen, a trophy form of the lust you feel taking form in another body.
Skin laced with ink and color, a plee, a reminder, of what those eyes have seen. Or who he pretends to be.
A frame that conquers mine. Like David I feel, against an army of Goliaths. With not a sling to aim high.
I’ve seen the phrase you call them, each of the recipients the same. Yet I drown in a whirl of compliments, not mirroring their name.
A once wayward soul destined to cross your fingers again, to strike desolation on the home which I’ve grown to need.
Yet in your preaching you dispel the thought that a greater me exists out there, for you. Wisdom and proof need sleep.
It scratches, makes me itch, from the inside of my thoughts to the outside of my lips. I shake. I quiver at the idea.
It keeps the rest I need away from the heart that grieves it. Pupils tired, bones soar, the clock she mocks as she sees fit.
For in your pocket a hundred better constructions sit, ones to which the mould they fit. An idealistic wearer of your perfect outfit.
The monster of the past I keep, not willingly, but with futile seas. A wave of insecurity washes me from the view I peep.
My fear, that I am not the one you seek.