(Sandy) Mites

Only can bottle it up in glass
one at a time. My second hand
right on Rome, lemon lime ticking
and itching into unseen wants,
leaning into what I hide when
my southpaw mainhand
just can’t stop itself from replying.
Only can bottle it up in glass
and set the ship on a wave
without wondering what will,
what won’t, because if I do
it will wake me up. Tender
burn cut oozes and stops.
It is this that controls the day,
off the clock overseer whips
me in the haunting history,
the extending backspace
forever. We are both beyond
ourselves when we give into
the lusting needs of nothing.
When we give into the absolute
lack of want, both being witches
with secret itches to scratch
ourselves using only each other.
It cannot be made more clear.

This poem is about: 
Me

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