I don’t try to hone in on why
I am the way I am anymore.
But everyone else just can’t
seem to help themselves.
The dissection of my hard-drive
has always been up for debate
even around the dinner table.
She’s electricity on her tongue,
she’s liquor in her veins,
she’s got the eyes of a saint,
with the canines of a predator.
My emotions are on a circuit,
a switch attached at the base,
my wrist tightly wound around
the confines of self-control.
And oh what an itch you give me,
just one small flick of the wrist is
all it takes to engulf your entire
world in darkness.
You see, our differences lie in
I am not afraid of my own
nor am I afraid of your own.
I find them all rather soothing,
and your buzzing helps me sleep