Won’t let me touch.
She pulls away, laughing.
Not the giggle of a tease,
But the hysteria of the damaged.
She’s fucked up.
And I pursue her anyway,
grateful for her tolerance.
What does that make me?
Little by little,
cast as the carnivore,
she erodes me until
I’m a smooth, rounded stone
for her to rub herself against.
That’s how it happens:
sudden, violent frotage.
She jumps from
standard deviations
to frantic masturbation
and back, as if it were
a momentary aberration.
I pretend not to notice
for fear that she’ll stop.
I’ve always thought your writing in destined for great things. But this poem paired with this photo… is wildly intense. Thanks for sharing your talent.
Moving. Makes you think. For days I’ll be considering what makes this guy tick. Thanks…
This poem really touched me. I was in this relationship, when I was younger. I wasn’t the speaker though.
worthy of comment
I found the poem disturbing, yet very moving. It has effected me deeply in ways I cannot explain. RG you are amazing…..thank you
This just popped into my inbox. So maybe the comment is a wee bit late. I wonder if I am in a relationship like this now? RG again to the quick you do that so well.