the beekeeper.

rope bunny.

tell me more
in a sultry voice
and dirty writing
how you wish to
bite my frets
and cause me to
hum lovely chords.

would it be too
vulgar to ask of
you to whisper
my name through
your jasper lips
and florida teeth?

would it be too
explicit to beg
for your begging,
to beg for me to beg
for you? because i
beg to differ if
that is the case.

it's pathetic, i think,
that i speak like
the king of all kings:
quite confident, sure
but in reality, past
all of my facades and
acts, i am terrified of
someone that i love
touching my body
because someone i
loved misused it.

i am afraid that
you will bind my
wrists and carve
your name into my
neck and i will
begin to cry from
the memories that
the delinquent kids
have left lodged into
my swollen temples.

and i am afraid
that you will
question my tears
and worry so dearly
about my past and
about my present
with you and your
lovely body.

and i am afraid
that you will kiss
my face and assure
me in a deep voice:
"there are no more
wolves in arkansas."
and i am afraid
that i will want to
so desperately but
be utterly unable
to believe in your
comforting words.

and i am afraid
that even though
you promised me
this was not about
sex and it was all
about you and i
together as one
that you will part
with my PTSD and
with my tears for
another much more
willing candidate
that could be taken
smoother and quieter
than i ever could be.

so if you wish
to tie me up in
pretty pink ribbons
and make me your
freckled playboy
bunny, then you
will have to know
that i have lines
in my hourglass
that could easily
be broken by
misplaced fingers.