Why should my sensitivity
be a sign
of who I am?
Why
should I be measured by
the bruises I bear
from a night of unrest,
when all I asked for
was hospitality?
Why would you seek
to drug me
with pea-sized pills
and force me to climb
the innerspring tower,
when a simple question
would so easily give
rest to your doubts?
Don’t take my truths
as acceptance
of your hand.
If you had
seen me
first, I may have reconsidered.
The cover has been
removed from you, not me.
Your chance has been spoiled:
blind
desire has that effect.
You will
see.
Treeshallow Musings 