scared

you scrawled your story

across your walls

and they pounce out of the paint

in the sun

and the lamplight

(which you made me choose--

decorating your home

to bring me closer to you.)

but i am scared of your age

and your children

five and two years

made in your mold.

and desperately scared of

those slavic women

with the broad cheekbones.

next to them, i know

i am just a girl in playclothes.

like the woman

stumbling across the garden path

told us;

"like twelve years old."

i wear my hair loose,

like a child.

i think i adore you like a child.

marvelling at your arches

and the curve of your muscles

when we are in bed together.

and you are loving me

like a woman

who wants to know better.

Reviews

[Hatchling]

great write!!