Lust is so easy to fall into.
Everyone always talks about falling in love,
but lust is the true con artist:
breath catching, nails digging, unexplained purple bruises,
hair becoming intertwined: red mixed with brown.
It’s easy to forget it’s temporary satisfaction.
The insatiable burn always seems to return.
Flashing white teeth with matching lens flares:
she always knows just how to smile.
Her perfectly manicured nails match her dress.
She walks like she owns the ground.
Hell, she probably does own the rug.
Be a shame if someone grabbed it
and yanked it out from under her.
I just need to make more money:
that’s what will make me really happy.
I only need a bit bigger house:
that’s what will make everything absolutely perfect.
Making her stay is all that matters,
even if she begs to be free.
Reminder: I deserve everything I’ve ever wanted.
Blood boils underneath my skin like magma;
it only needs time to become lava.
Little is required to make it breech:
one more word from you is enough.
Tell me about how I should dress.
Complain about the feminists taking over everything.
Demonstrate your male privilege one more time.
I’ve forgotten what made me get up.
Days of monotony drown out rational thought
and staying in bed seems more efficient.
What would inspire me to get up?
Hint: the answer is “nothing at all.”
Wasting time on life is the sickness;
going back to sleep is the cure.
Mother Earth sobs as we bury her.
We consume every part of her being
with little more than a backwards glance.
Her blood drips from our desperate fingers
as we rake at her vined skin.
We breathe in oxygen she gave us
and cough out oil spills and toxicity.
I’m not going to stand for this.
These bigots know nothing about my life.
I spit in the big one’s face.
Hellfire rains through fists and impromptu weapons.
A final lead pipe slams my ribs.
My mind quiets with a single truth:
pride will be the death of me.
Edited by Amy Owings