I Write for Selfish Reasons

My net of prose would ensnare you: A helpless rabbit’s heart palpitating; Petrifying shock and fear coursing Through your scarlet/violet infrastructure Of veins and arteries, nerves and synapses. If my whims desire, A flick of my wrist Would tear away Your scarlet veil of elegance, Sending it trailing down In a gossamer rain to the floorboards. I can reduce you to your knees: Sprawled across the icy winter pavement— Love, cruelty, guilt, and pleasure Weaving ideas together in you head. Ideas I suggested. Ideas no amount of forgetting could possibly purge. My brush strokes would stain your eyes, Amethyst and onyx drooling over canvas, Platinum rivers curling in rampant embraces. My music would yank at your heartstrings, Dashing hopes against the cliffs, And raising emotions in immortal resurrection. A letter, sealed with vanilla candle wax And stamped with the imprint of my lips, Would seal your fate forever, once read. A single whisper, tickling the ears of your imagination Would force you to love me forever, Or despise me till the day you die. I can mess with you— Until I bore, And prowl the midnight streets again Hunting my next victim. You: already banished from my thoughts. Me: ever-indulging my selfish romances, Drowning ever-deeper in decadent apathy; ‘Cuz honestly, I never imagined any of it for you.