it's so complicated,
this desire to be broken:
to know myself as strong, fearless, confident,
and seeking someone to fault that.
in the moments of my deepest self-awareness,
my heart grinds away
in the mire of success, seeking inspiration
among stones that shouldn't be turned:
what is despair if not tipping the scales,
if not finding myself alone
but as independent as the golden calf?
and what i need is a darker soul,
someone else's grit
to erode my control and careful plans.
it's complicated, even the admitting of it
must be done carefully and silently;
yet this conception of my disgrace,
so well formed in bed at night,
finds its home in your palms
and your teeth
and the way your mouth latches onto mine.
the marks are left for morning,
the selfhood left for dead.