As I lay on this couch
smelling of the wolf,
covered in a dead dog's hair,
telling you "It's going to be awe right"
as you walk out
the cabin door toward the cold
to renew a long lost love
that never gets old, ages or bores,
let me deny you the satisfaction
for one final time, without a wave or goodbye:
I will not submit, I will be a martyr to your hallucination,
your demand for my body, my mind, my third blind eye.
I will walk this world a homeless waif, my shoes gone soft
and the paved Earth you point to as civilization's mistake.
I would rather be the Whore of Babylon, cursing you to hell,
eating fried dirty rice from trash bins, rolling in the dirt.
than let you be with me again in my tattered witchy chic skirt.
