Naive

You circle me like a vulture—

at a tourist trap.

Calling to me with your arms full,

rainbow trinkets swaying,

in a kaleidoscope of color,

with no price tags.

You corner me,

much like the scavenger

I met in Paris.

Tell me it is a gift,

as you wrap my delicate wrist

in your carefully crafted bracelet.

And knot it.

I smile up at you, grateful,

doe-eyed and innocent.

You hold your thumb

over my pulse,

secure in the circle of your grip.

You look at me and tell me,

forcefully,

that I must pay for it.

​

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