Infatuation

I hear my name, turn around.

Oh no, not he.

Which one?

The one who coos my name

with flashing emerald eyes

and curled tawny hair.

Nothing exceptional, nothing rare.

So how does he stun me in fear?

 

He who does not care

Me who has no choice.

A puppet on his strings

a mouse in his vice.

My heart starts to race,  eyes cloud and glaze.

Hand or voice he never does raise,

but deep in my chest lives the pain.

 

Does he know how I feel?

That it's not just a game?

Carefree ignorance

or malignant amusement?

Former or latter,

it does not matter.

Whatever his intention

I am his.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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