i could have your hands and feet
like a puppet, under my control.
i could own your soul
like the moon owns the waves.
i could have you on an operating table
with your chest cracked open,
heart inside out.
and placed on display
in a mason jar at my desk.
do you feel like escargot,
like a snail robbed of its shell
about to hit the frying pan?
i wonder if your zen is really just a shocked numbness,
an inability to process,
as the earth shakes below us,
and we are split apart by a giant chasm.
My heart is a minefield with no map.
my rage is a beast kept locked in chains,
yet he always escapes.
and I can only feel you if I close my eyes.