I am desperate for an intellectual boner.
A spiritual wetness. Attraction. A sign
To prove that yes, I can feel, I do react
seeking out which moans have been faked,
Like you could see the lie in my eyes but
I act so well I fool myself sometime, almost
like my only purpose was to fulfill a script
a social contortionist who got stuck, and could never unfold again
as you dog ear each page, marking my mistakes
armed with a highlighter and white-out ink
when the lines of reality blur, and you are but a dream
and I, a flip-book doing cartwheels across the pages
my own little circus act, three rings at that
and when the book ends, im trapped in your binding
you don’t turn these pages much anymore
and im getting cramps, having not moved from your shelf
where you left me leaning one summer ago
im ready to intrude in someone else’s memoir
to be the star of a page or even a chapter
