Here comes the addiction again, its
whispering lips disguised as passion: the
touch of its hidden hand tap-running
way beyond the weave of my skin
and I
soaked to my core allow it to wed me
these buckling knees and paper mache vows
impressing the addict impaled inside
and while it listens
eyes necking everything in raised pulse
it rolls them back with slack-jawed possession
and I move aside
host to a beaten heart that will not commit to stopping
– a puppeteer’d shell in this limbless silence –
running far without a single step
both of us
gambling with a satisfied purr that only I
once combative, now frail
know as loneliness.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 9 October, 2019