Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Turn Off The Moon

You called me your baby,

then you backed away,

tainted by your tone.

I wasn’t a baby,

according to my advanced but amateur mind,

bare legs,

back and forth,

behind your desk,

in the dress you decided suited me best,

precocious pendulum,

preempting our doom.

You found me again,

your fantasy,

in front of the fire,

hell beside me,

as you held me,

a little kiss between two lovers.

Nothing more,

in case your guilt,

stained the rug,

once pure,

covered in your cherry crime,

because I was your baby,

and you were frightened of me.

You were frightened of me,

the way that you wanted me.

I told you I was of the age,

where I could have wine with dinner,

watching you snigger,

as I choked on a taste,

my young tongue couldn’t comprehend.

My embarrassment is ice water,

I am inverted,

and you are averted,

once again,

because you see a lonely teen,

who’s used to laughter,

same age as your daughter,

sweet sixteen.

Yearning for youth,

playground plasma,

all across your hands,

starry eyed school girl,

so full of salacity,

that you project onto me.

You see the white rug,

choking,

caked in blood.

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