Less Than Human
You are not taken by me:
You are taken by the shadows and shapes there.
Sharp collarbones, acute angles when knees bend, shin to thigh:
Movement in the night, soft sighs, I am wisp-of-smoke, wisp-of-woman, neither living nor dead, your head
Cradled to my breasts, my eyes soft there.
I am your mother, your worship, your hellhound, your whore:
Everything to you, I am, but I am not me.
You see the curve below the protuberance of hip, the pink softness of these lips,
Strangled under weighted red hair:
“Who are you?”
The moon arches her slivered arrows from the quiver of night,
Impaled by the furious darkness you seduce a sea creature,
Claim my skin as amphetamine,
See one hundred faces of people from ancient cultures and places
And each one you see is them, is not me, and:
Why should it matter?
Do I embody primal identity?
Copyright © Candice Fabian | Year Posted 2011
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