she whispers my name.
i hear it, but
her voice sounds unlike any confession i've heard.
and frankly,
there's no back door this time.
she has me cornered-
begging to be handled.
i'm not a showcase-
i'm barely a representation.
the glass is smoggy for a reason.
i sit behind closed doors for a purpose.
but sometimes i look at her and want to be present.
i want to be the television in her living room,
front and center.
i am not greedy until it's for your attention.
i'm not lustful until it's for your eyes.
you have me by the throat,
whether it's your hands or mine.
YOU ARE READING
speak softly
Poetryyou speak until your breath gives out, and the shallow huffs of words they never heard beg to be buried; but live on in the sidewalks. - - - prose/poetry
