Desire

Smoking dykes line the wall.
They're divided in the conflict between leather and lace,
somebody's secret and military clothing taken out of service and made fashionable.  

A  youth in an idealistic bubble staggers through the parking lot,
having just lived through her first date rape.  
She's trying to think of who she can call because
she doesn't think she can drive herself home.

Piano whores fuck the notes flat.  
Sharp excursions of rhythm become dull dance steps in the hands of chivalry and refined impersonations of sex.  
There's a simultaneous paradox of spoken pleasantries and subliminal vulgarities taking flight out of civilized mouths.  
Socialized vocal chords translate the raw subconscious impulsive breaths that tear their way to be heard,
but get distorted into tones deformed of their original intent
and become something crippled and more suitable for the listener's diluted sensibilities.  

The drum of the heartbeat maintains its honest pace.  
Driving the blood to the mechanisms most suitable to fulfilling the desire that drives the beat.  
There's a lightheaded sweat that sheeths the skin.  Air inflates beneath the surface, floating the body in its shell, like swimming.  

Desire feels like a panic attack.