Conjurer

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