.180

I like when they do it
or what they simply do to me.
My sack. My sect.
My Hannibal Lechter mask of
pain and panacea;
Of outlandish desires

What they do-
lift the strap
Up and over
Bikinied
Laced on. Sucked in.
Lips chapped up;
Brush wanded

The grooming.
And starving for fitting clothing,

leaving me cold
as they scroll their thirsty t-shirts
down their frontside bodices.

Rib caged sensuality-
harbored issued grief
With a mind set on hair and
makeup and nails and
skipping curfew and bras and panties and lip glossed kissing.
Looking for security-
Making their own.

The rules.
The plucking
The unnatural smells
And crevassed sights
A midnite banquet or
an afternoon buffet-
A genuine chance at happiness.