touch leaves marks

It’s in the breath

Thickened air

Each one lends weight

To the last

Carved over being grown

And all you need do

Is impress me as to

Whether I give the gift

Of myself to you

Laugh, call me arrogant

But no woman wants a lovable loser,

Sure, settle but you’ve done that,

And although I am not tuxedo and roses,

I am what nightmares run from,

You can feel small

Resting against me

My irrational self-confidence,

Isn’t so irrational

When my touch

Brings a small whimper to

The cupids bow of your lips

And I’m not insecure,

Because that implies

I’m not good enough,

And I am,

Not perfection because that’s dull and impossible,

You’d think I was some monster wearing a golden mask,

Rather than a beast who tried being a Prince,

And realised he could still be a beast

Without stockings or powdered wigs,

My touch leaves marks,

But they’re sigils,

Brands of intention which glow

When you see my face

Hear my voice





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