my old poems

Complexity

I dreamt of you as the smell of sex
The musky scent of sweat and semen
mingling as taste upon my tongue.
You dreamt of me as abstract colour,
mesmerizing to your senses,
blood red and deep shades of blue.
Neither one of us could see the other
as tangible substance
or as being an extension of ourselves.

I used my hands as tools of seduction
rubbing your weary mind with knowing fingers
You enticed me with your tongue
filling me with tension
creating a sense of bondage.

I woke to find you upon the bed,
your hands, your mind, your will-
bound with silky strands of desire.
But, was it your desire or mine?
Passion concealed the answer.

In need of purity, you imagined me a saint,
a creature of submission
an object to be pursued.
And yet, I would rather be a demon,
a creature of aggression,
unable to be controlled.
Sainthood is too binding.

I am neither saint nor demon.

I was unable to play the part you wrote for me,
to be objectified,
to wait for your pursuit.
Attraction, then, became repulsion.
You preferred a pernicious oblivion.
Did you not realize-
your actions spoke louder than words?

How did passion become my sin?
Why did sex become fornication?

You cursed me as though I were evil,
claiming an act of deception,
stung as if betrayed by my intentions
as if soiled by your own passions.

Despite, attempts to cast me as a demon-
the woman who enticed you remains.
My vulnerability which aroused you-
lays bound in an unfulfilled desire
Paradoxically, I long for a purity of passion
a need for true longing
the convergence of will and desire.
I am seeking complexity.

4/21/97