muse, musing:

will the tables turn when i wake up on your side of the world? or will i learn?
discern from the past that what's gone is gone and move on and away
from your tangled hair and your soulnetting stare into the hidden parts of me
or will you melt me, gone frozen, blinding white wasteland like massachusetts winters
heart bitter and cold and slightly sold on the idea that love isn't something real
can you offer me spring? rise flowers from the hours of waiting for something to give?
do you even want to? or am i just plunging my hands into fairy tales and fantasy
coming up with the things i want to see, believing in my own mythology

i think you like to keep me unstable, like to watch me waver, savor the way i wonder
if you're wandering back into my arms or just going to harm me once more
every time i think i know which way you're heading, i find you wind your way back
onto my little finger.... give me the illusion of control, but you hold all the buttons
tons and tons of questions eat at my questing mind and i find i both want and fear you

you, you are the poppies making me wistful, i'm drugged on your opiates
and i hate and love you for it, i want to fall to the way you stall the inevitable
but i don't want to find myself in the abyss of missing what i had once again
i can't afford to project and be rejected by you; too insane to bottlestop my love
but too sane to run back into your arms, too wary to trust you
every drug has side effects; and though the sex is more than good
it's not worth turning over the mourning after, finding you gone
don't want to be left with some cum-stained sheets and tear stained cheeks

do you want a heroine, someone who can rescue you from your oblivion?
or some type of sin, a heroin that will guide you farther into the black, a lack of reality?
are you looking for a weekend fuck, a little luck, a little head for the road?
do you want to bleed at my claws, be stripped and whipped to make things right again?
or none of the above, some kind of love that will make you perspire and yet inspire
poetry to drip from your fingertips onto the body of a lover more than willing to be your canvas?

i am afraid to offer you entrance into my home, afraid to touch you
because i know you will merely steal my heart from my lips, one playful kiss
and i would find myself back where this all began
i am ophelia, mad for the man who suckles at her sanity
at least there will be flowers when i drown in these possible tomorrows