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
Say
My
Name.
MB Blissett 