Dominance's Submission

Simone comes wailing in
louder than any bomb siren—

tear stains tearing
through her beige cheeks
too often to process
as any emoting—

& I tell her what
I want to be told;

you’re okay

stop

there have been
worse moons
& you have clung
to something amicable
to life for years
even if your lungs
don’t burn as hot.

I’m always hanging
with the crowd
with psyche stains
on their knees,

agendas swabbed
in the line between
the first & last word

& enough abject sadness
to conquer a therapist’s
waiting room with
molotov cocktails
lit with ripped off
strips of dreams.

Kiki rests & rubs
my silence like fingers
on a lion’s nearly
yawning mouth—

small talk

paranoia paraphernalia
conducted by osmosis—

she knows the danger
in my kinetic muscles.

The only missing
is the foreign language peace
I boxed down the day before
the city’s throat stung
with clogged cotton—

the one that fermented
in my guts like wine
in a casket
until it dissolved itself
for future dystopic preservation.

I cannot blame men
for the jingy wiring
& I cannot catch
the bullet train of
someone’s palm until
I can hold my own.