among the everywoman

 　

Maybe I was just trying to figure you out and ravage your body the way time has ravaged it.

 

Or maybe I was just attempting to make conversation with your lips and

persuade you to reopen old festering wounds and share your closed heart with an open heart surgeon who would rather be operating on your brain,

because that’s where the real skill lies.

 

Or maybe I was alone without a candle in the dark and didn’t have the wherewithal to whistle while I cursed the wick and forgot to celebrate the flint as I watched my lady’s flinty heart dimming in that fingernail in the sky moon.

 

Or maybe I was neither in love nor in lust; I was just alone and nonplused and unwilling to put up much of a fuss when you opened your lovin’ vein with that blunt instrument called your brain and let it spill out all over my golden-black flame of hair and drip beneath my astigmatic stare.

 

Or maybe my mouth ejaculated when my tongue should have been on a leash and maybe I unleashed my id when my superego should have been

refereeing and when my ego was taking a selfie in front of my looking-glass self.

 

Or maybe the blame lies with the lie of a shy guy treading enigmatically  in front of the Sphinx and musing in front of his muses as Medusa washes the original serpent of sin from her reptile coif with an anti-venom made from the blood of Christ and displays her scarred neck for Perseus and celebrates her disembodiment from a netherworld that eschews phantasmagoria and prevents her from throwing stones at glass ceilings.