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I don’t know why I like to torture myself so.
It seems to me if I didn’t want pain
I’d have no trouble avoiding it.
But as it is I always find ways
to hurt myself on account of you.
But I guess I’m just attracted to what’s easy
and I admit it takes no effort
to give myself over to thinking about you
and getting my hands dirty
in the ripened pleasure of indulging in you.
It is the resisting that takes so much discipline
and I can’t even begin to enter that territory:
I fail the first test of crossing the bridge that asks
if prying your beauty’s claws off my soul is worth it.
It is so much easier just to love you.
But even the Bible warned against sloth,
this worldly sin of refusing to work at
freeing myself from something that
makes me want to lie in bed all day
dreaming of a day in Atlantis engulfed in your arms,
absent from my responsibilities on earth.
I’m a Christian woman, but there may be
hellfire waiting to punctuate my mortality
if I don’t vigilantly make the choice
to overcome this envy, this covetousness of you,
knowing full well your heart is already spoken for.
I’ve wandered into the realm of immoral obsession,
scorching my fingertips at believing
that seeking clues about her
is somehow an extension of the knowledge of you
while this stray cat from the filthy alley
chases after its own tail, not knowing any better
as if welcoming the lash of the whip, the opened flesh
burrowing deeper and deeper into the pit
of the consistently agonizing discovery
of just how much you belong to her
—not to me.

Untitled photo by photographer Кошман Олеся