I will not have things without meaning.

This room is like a cave

(every object will tell a story if asked)

is like a body, poetry in its form and function,

begging to be escavated,

to be raped.

I lock the door while working and sleeping now,

and leave it open when I'm gone,

like a whore holding her skirt up around her waist.

It is a map with no X,

created for its own destruction.

I glare at people who walk in this room

not noticing my art, my life

the secrets that I have,

in nonchalance,

laid bare all over the floor.

I want the question,

the live pronounciation

to collect like my own salivia on some else's ear drum.

I close the drapes only to advance the invitation

to rip them open like my own legs,

to cause some ridiculous reaction

in another human being.

I'm tired of living and breathing

inside some faceless "you",

I want to pry something open

and claim an incestuous and insolent pearl,

hear a voice other than my own

and construct a life around its echoes,

and for some fleeting and irrelevent immeasurable second,

feel eternity sway in and out

of the minute hand,

while trying to grasp onto something real.