Poetry

Feral Longing

My desire is to go to bed with words: covering, wrapping, and hiding my naked with them. But like a thread bare quilt, cool air breaths right through them, sliding them off my inner thighs and lower back.

A small emptiness lingers inside me and manifests a tail that I have grown and keep growing and can't help but try and wag; it follows me everywhere.

I have to go to word etiquette school for girls where they will teach me to stop eating my soul like a famished animal; teach me to pull my words out slowly and gently, like a hair from my throat that slides off my tongue, and then place it gently and thoughtfully on a page - like a lady (who then thumps her tail on the ground, happy to have pleased you, yes?).

But when they turn their backs I lick my plate and make a mess of my face. I am feral. My tail hits the ground harder with the sound of my heart beating magnificent.

I hide the bad words in private places and laugh knowing they'll never find them there - they're to prissy to look.

Sent to my room for the misappropriation of language, I am alone with loneliness again. I lie on my bed and bring my long tail up. I play with its softness, tickling my face, my lips, and my chest...

I am where I am supposed to be.