I love delicate people in theory.
Just nearly broken people, just innocent and naÔve enough to seem so cute.
People so well they canít see that youíre weighty, that youíre too unmanageable.
I convince myself that theyíre good for me and that wholesome is good.
But I am the desert to a thirsty wanderer.
The problem with theories is that you donít know youíre wrong until itís too late.
I love to snatch up slim waist damsels with no tattoos and standard morals,
or boys who want to save me, say please and grew up well.
I get them in between my teeth and rip and tear their fleshy intentions.
I realize I canít stand them and they canít stand my storm.
I am the hurricane thrashing small islands.
How I wish I could be the match for someone so simple and whole.
Each new prospect promising me balance until my burden catches them off guard and
well-meaning crumbles beneath us.
I am the Earth to Atlas.
I fall in love with everyone and everything,
I am the dagger to a heart with good manners.
I cannot pretend to be tamed or whole,
I am the earthquake to the clay pot.
I will always be the temptation to honor,
I am the eager Goddess come to fruition.
My storm will rage, my desert will thirst and my world will vibrate
surely to be the end of someone tenuous and sound.