i don't want to be some stinging anemone
clutched to your rock self.

i don't want to feed from your underbelly,
but i want someone
(i want you, my darling)
to be caring towards me;
loving manliness is so becoming
upon your wise and hum'rous face.

i am your imperfect other;
the soullessness which--
with weightlessness--
occupies the recesses which
should house eyes.

i am the Godliness;
the lawlessness;
the occupants of worlds entire.
let us run.

together, now--
we fly into ourselves
(into fits autistic and beautiful
in their uniqueness)--

let us become our
own unbecoming,
unabsolved in this:

dystopian entanglement.

let us be born
into our own
truest selves once more.