Of What I Do Not Write

I write of desires and flesh,
Flames flickering black and red,
Touches as light as summer rain.
I write of marks and letters,
Ink that displays itself,
Silent pauses in between.
I write of sunlight and flowers,
Gossamer threads of a spider’s web,
Dried leaves twirling in the wind.
I write of spices and spaces,
Aromas that waft in through the cracks,
Amber liquids swirling, half-stubs burning.

Notice of what I do not write.

I write not of silences and screams,

Nor of the blood that drips onto the streets,
No rape mars my verse, no riot erupts,
No prostitute sells wares,
No lives, money, blood and flesh traded.
I draw the veil over their existence as others have before;
I join the ranks of history,
Comfortable.
Numb.
And judge myself guilty.


One Reply to “Of What I Do Not Write”

  1. Chocolate kisses. Lovely, dedacent smooth chocolate kisses. I am a slave to you. You sit in my closet, hiding. No one knows you’re there. Except me. You were Leftover from a meeting, and I couldn’t just leave you behind. I meant to take you to work with me. But I couldn’t give you up.You’re sitting in a tupperware container, in your plain Jane Hersheyness, so much better than Godiva could ever pretend to be. Dressed in just a silver foil wrapper, you play coy. There are times when I’m impatient to unwrap you, and I want you undressed and ready. Your brother Hershey Bar doesn’t play hard to get. He’s dangerous, because I can just strip him naked in a flash. But before I know it, he’s gone, and I’m left standing there, wanting more, silently cursing him under my breath, wondering why I let myself be seduced by him. I adore you in your little silver wrapper, because you soothe me in small doses. Ones that I can handle and have no regrets over later. It would be better, perhaps, if you were sitting in the candy bowl, so that anyone could have you. But you are my little secret for now. I don’t want you to be found by anyone else. You’ll be gone too fast as it is.

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