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I love delicate people in theory.
Just nearly broken people, just innocent and naïve enough to seem so cute.
People so well they can’t see that you’re weighty, that you’re too unmanageable.
I convince myself that they’re good for me and that wholesome is good.
But I am the desert to a thirsty wanderer.
The problem with theories is that you don’t know you’re wrong until it’s 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 can’t stand them and they can’t 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.