By Jackie Leavitt
Why do you not turn your benevolent face upon mine,
But rather prefer to scorch my skin,
White in surrender,
Now turned scarlet under your fury?
Like King Midas,
Your light touch turns
Other glistening bodies golden,
But mine, you ignore completely, despite my pleas,
Or turn my flesh a deep blush,
As if in shame.
A modern Icarus,
I wither under your gaze,
Melted and deflated.
From my sought shelter,
I peek up at you,
Shining clear through the glass pane that protects me not,
Then look inward upon my own reflection.
Your sent agents, such small sun spots,
Only when I conceal my open shame
And hide behind my modest coverings,
Do I begin to feel safe in your warm embrace.
We all want what we can’t have.