Author Information
Disclosed.
Love, your hands are foreign to me.
A stigma trails behind every move
A suspicious motive
Your ugly agenda.
We make love
And I study wallpaper
The tension, Is unbearable.
In conversation, love dare not speak.
My heart discloses itself
A small black burn circle
On paper, through and through.
This gape is no different from death
Both predictable and demure
Full of emptiness, it is no enigma-
And now we’re close as lepers.
My body, a shell
A tight curl at one side of the bed.
Contortionist, twisting away from you.
The explicit display of human integrity
Words, getting muffled
Lost in the shuttle
of a dead ear.
