Raw Versions of Me

I guess underneath it all, I’m something like a monster

I’m still exploring. Still experimenting. Still getting to know, Me.

I say monster, politely.

Like a prismatic fuzzball waiting for the light to shine in its dusty corner, hoping to be discovered and cleansed from its impurities,

I grow every time a door creaks or the wind seeps.

And as mush as I don’t belong, the guilty pleasure burns hot , pestering for a chance to release submerged feelings.

But in the mean time, I’ll filter the air, faintly grasping at any and every pleasure that’s wafts by. Failing to grab hold only builds desire.

Will I, paint today. Or write a poem.

Underneath the invisible hand I wonder what the dust from the window tastes like.

At times. I’m disgusted in me and the monstrous cravings that often lull me to sleep.

What’s wrong with the inner child who can’t tame the confusing desires of lust and fantasies I dare not speak.

I wonder what it feels like, to wake at 5 and take a run or catch the first rays of the morning sun.

Most of the week, I don’t mind putting on my favorite mask and tending the garden that keeps my soul from leaking

But every now and again that ominous pit deep under the seams of the iconic 1950’s female being, begins to manifest the core feelings of a monster

My hunger at times, knows no bounds.

Beyond lust and  ill thoughts, beyond sweet cravings of real shock , beyond exciting ruts of broken trust and permanent cycles of brain rot

Is a woman.

Some way. Some how.