Out of breath I roll over onto my chest,
worn out from the fervor of passion
you let a laugh of content slip past,
and gently trace the stars on my back,
as I graze the scars fading across my skin,
“amazing”, “dizzying” you decide to say,
but I lay there unflinching facing away,
untethered to the moment, hovering,
I am already bored with this moment,
I summon a smile and face you,
“It was, wasn’t it?”, I say,
the master of conjure and allurement,
instead of, “I was, wasn\'t I?”,
as a male without expertise might say,
I turn around, rolling my eyes, I wonder,
it was not terrible, maybe even nice,
but will it ever be “amazing” or “dizzying” ?
this is what I spend these minutes pondering,
speculating if my sorcery has deceived me,
deluding my idea of lust and love,
I have fabricated a misleading fairytale,
a happy never after to plunge myself into,
maybe it is for the best to be this,
convinced love will always be this taboo,
a sorcerer swindled by her own ideals,
sorrowful of what if eclipsing what is,
a suicidal dream to avoid the intolerable nightmares