, , , ,


No, not your safe bet
Who thinks the world of you
Not the safe bet who waits on you
On the patio, pricking fingers over and over again

Not the tender hand
That presses your lipstick stained blue collars;
Not the sweet Honey who asks you:
Make love to me.

I own the set of nails
That claws at your back,
Rakes your skin raw,
Turns your hiss to growls,
To rapid bellows of exaltation.

I alone hold the sighs
That award the praise you ever so grit-tingly anticipate.
Slight of hand, at the roll of a dice
I am the girl you lost to The Game.