Ars Poetica

As published in Whispers of the World, an anthology by Wingless Dreamer Publisher.

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Poetry’s lustful eyes track my every move and watch as I remove garment after garment. They watch me tease them and slip off a strap only to let it hang over my shoulder in perpetual purgatory. Their hands are tied to the chair and their mouth gagged, but their eyes tell me where to go.

Poetry,

Also watches from the window, gazing at my backside, oblivious to their wandering eyes.

Poetry,

My welcome peeping Tom, also listens from downstairs. A musician who derives their beats from the thumping of my heels on the floor.

Poetry,

Is the red lipstick stain I kissed onto the mirror, waiting to be removed, and the same shade smudged on the tissue I wiped my tears with earlier. Poetry, Is my naked body, now finally revealed, cold and uncoordinated.

Poetry,

Are the tears that spill out onto the scattered lingerie and the affection of their unbound hands.

Poetry,

Is the ever present gaze of the curious spectator outside our window watching the debacle unfold. Poetry,

Is the story that spectator takes home and tells their spouse.

Poetry,

Is the lie they lead with to shield their hidden, deviant curiosities.

Poetry,

Is the soothing melody the musician downstairs coos me to sleep with.

Poetry,

Is the stuffed animal clutched in my arms as I sleep, red lipstick staining the crown of its head.

Poetry,

Is the unused condom they took home in the front pocket of their jeans.

Poetry,

Is the story the peeping tom will tell their friends at the bar, and the memory of “The-lap-dance-girl-who-broke-out-in-tears”.

Poetry,

Is the drunken exchange of the story over a bare mattress on the floor, as one partner tries to hide the condom in the jeans of their front pocket, and the other lie about this evening’s whereabouts.