Ensnarement

You won't look me in the eyes,
hold my hands, kiss my lips,
whisper tender, loving words
while I fall asleep next to you
in a heavenly feather bed,
stroke my hair, or pat my head

(anymore). 

You will look at me seductively,
lick your lips, speak your mind
about what you want to (fucking) do,
and I said stop-no-really-stop
stopstopstopSTOP!

You can't hear me.
You don't listen.

(I tried to tell you no.)

You ensnare me in your eyes.
Your false pretenses and broken promises
provide a comfort. 
They are always there.

(Just as I am always trapped here.)

Precarious Balances

Precarious balances between steady and unstable
are obvious, when the rope we walk rocks back and forth.

There is a rope that we tip-toe,
as humans emerged
in humanity and evil.

It is constantly fluid.
It moves with us and against us.
We never know which direction
it is planning until it is too late.
We have either crossed it,
or we have fallen below.

Falling below the line hurts
more than a broken bone at an odd angle;
it hits right in the home of things.
We find that we can not breathe,
thinking we can't possibly go any further down,
and then this rope drops us down two hundred more stories
that we did not think we could go,
that we will not survive.

We bruise and break our hearts this way;
do not talk, do not scream, just whisper apologies
that no one will hear, because our voices are just too far gone.

There's nothing here for us;
it is an empty carcass.

Listening closely, though, we hear others dropping
one by one - like flies - as they say goodbyes
that are not due to death, but to unfinished cries.

Precarious balances between steady and unstable
are obvious, when the rope we walk rocks back and forth.