kettle black

There's a channel of cynicism,
skepticism that calls a spade a spade-
and cocks its hip to take it away . . .
There's that promise of tease, a suspension of thought
that claims my mind's what he wants and my body forgot,
but what wily way of claiming this, no?
In bondage, in preening, in telling me so.

There's force, then, pure motion, that tears limb from limb
that sobs at the thought and flushes chagrin
The maimed autonomy, baring its soul
While claimed its anomalous, devours me whole.

Furrowed brow bend to the glowering thought
that-oh!- could I shatter at fury he's wrought.

And maybe the aching that ghosts come to pry
from emptiness shaking from loveless lust rise
could prove from the depths of me time won't abide
That though he's maintained I'll be left undisguised.