A slit, just a cough of a slit
goes between your skin and your subcutaneous fat.
And in goes a shoe-horn to lift
flakes and drapes of your slacken jaw
which rests against the crook of my thigh.
I stand, sit, twirl like a puppet
with or without strings, the throes of politeness
are not my own.
Take three steps to the left, make a desperate dash to the right edge of the chapter
but don’t you dare reel me back inside your bonfire of fallacies.
Love is not a baked potato loaded with fat-free this and low-sodium that.
Love isn’t even a dignified, alcohol-free beer tasting.
Love is the abyss I looked into that did not look back.
— yiqi 2 march 2015 1:42 pm