The King

With a mask of stone, of war, of a contained story, the king walks down the narrow path that strains us. His breath controls my pulse, holds back from seeing me, but he cannot, when he sees my fitted pants that hide skin of porcelain — perhaps pearl, perhaps fire. The silences become the atmosphere, and intentional ignorance screams.

He feels entitled to frighten me, to put his voice inside me before his hands. He speaks and buries me in the earth. He doesn’t want me to see him, he wants me to feel him, to let myself fear him, and not run, but stay and then he can watches me dressing in white with red. to sit only to receive, tempting with my wet little face.

He knows I cry, that I am not ready to stand tall in the world, though I hide it. He senses it just by looking at me.

What could I do for him? Let him tell me. I am not ready to fly and I never know what I do. He sees me as if I were his bird and I know he's the king with the best aim.