Member-only story
tortured by this thing we do —
how i’m repulsed and skewed
by the one who desires me;
how i’ve lusted for a woman with a family.
or my last, in her boyfriend's living room…
i hate myself for what i put her through;
and now i sit on fences in a forfeit
with a bowl of sweet porridge.
as they drink and partake
in the powder room;
she waits for my gaze
the wall, the roof, the door, i do.
she goes home with him; while i stay
looking over her shoulder the whole way
to see if i’m bothered: her prey —
i am, but not for her today.
bothered by this red thread
wrapped around my finger;
the limerence and longing linger
for the one i haven’t met yet.
would you ever talk to me straight up?
instead of leaving all these breadcrumbs.
