Radiation Sickness

The Same.

I have been left to fry,

Sunny-side, toasted loving-you.

Still, pink in the middle, 

Still, sore from the You that wrenched me

Out, and the heat

Reaches the places already black from your press,

Escapes where I am cold and white and stale

From a touchless voice.

It coos. It doesn't roar, doesn't warn,

Doesn't believe in being fierce. 

It drives me insane with the wondering 

If it is something to love or something to run from,

I guess

I had a little of the Electra complex after all. 

If I see you, your bucked stride, humping across the street,

I will be charged. Electric, ready to go on --

But if I see another day without seeing you -

Well, I may as well be dead. Gone too far,

I sweep the road-side with my ankles,

Twirling sorry little-girl dreams like ribbon in the streams

Of cold, black adulthood. You race,

And I am buried. Do I mourn the me

Who fled, or do I chase you, open-wide,

Beseech God for the overdue reciprocation.