in silence desires dry,

like fingerpainted

waxed paper promises,

i press and hold within

a beating prismatic prison,

beneath a thumb

streaked and straining

against their slow seeping,

as i refuse to use

what i might abuse.


Oh, let me live

with a broken heart,

the stroke of hands

turning color true

to black and blue,

until i rise through

to capture the presence

of an essence

that i had been.


release me

from the reflection

of the woman i was last,

and your women past,

as i shift and groan

under the pressure

that burns the waxed surface,

peeling the color-bled

moistened skin,

until the lowliest

parts of me have fled.


redeemed and remitted,

by the vapor of commitment,

colorless, odorless, dangerous –

a form of gifting complete.

and will lay this woman’s soul

gently at your feet.


© M.G. Iannucci 2018

Art by Christian Schloe

2 thoughts on “Lack

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