You’re unsatisfied, he tells me.
I lay confidently in his arms in a warm home,
Warm bed, yet his words hang in the air and
Cling onto every atom in the densely dark room.
Reaching my breath,
I breathe in his 5 syllables,
Relentlessly they spill into my being,
Like a biocontainment alarming my body,
He’s right, I am bored.
And he must be bored too!
Maybe boredom is erotic,
When men do it, for women…
I want him to hear,
I need him to see,
But it can’t come from me,
I already know this from others.
There’s warmth in my erotic boredom,
It subtly follows me everywhere I go,
Like a little girl gently tugging at my arm,
Persistent at her quest to play.
There’s another man.
I don’t tell him this, of course
I’m not supposed to,
I’m supposed to tell the little girl who tugs:
Her world is only fairytale,
But lying to her hits me hard in my gut.
My stomach is smart you see
Because there’s also a little boy —
Who follows and tugs on the other man’s arm,
Persistent at his quest to play.
And there’s the thing,
The little girl and the little boy who tug,
Live in a very real,
Vivian N. Lopez