finally, to forgo sex is to lick the needles of a cactus,
is to let the wind purposely reshape my hair,
is to repent my sin of adultery,
is to anchor a boat on the highest of tides,
is to sit by the ocean and count every star,
is to rampage through the parking lot just to be close to the door.
Not to have sex is to diminish.
To have sex is to be nestled, like a pearl within the walls of an oyster.
To have sex is to control, or to be controlled.
It is to understand when something detaches, like a fallen leaf faltering from its branch.
To have sex is to know I have lost,
between innocence and the coming of age.
Is to feel pain just to enjoy the ride.
To have sex is to find myself chained by barbwire in a labyrinth of feces, soiled sheets and beds that are as soft as concrete.
To increase my worth and myself is to find a means that will help me feel connected,
like being hog-tied on a wooden fence and pistol-whipped.
Is to have an alternate sanctuary and find comfort in something that feels settling,
like writing poetry in the midst of a crowded restaurant while drinking mocha.
To diminish is to exicute my mother with compassion,
and comprehend my need for love.
Is to forget that I plunged the needle into my vein,
is to sing off key and admire my talent.
To have sex is to smell the burning of flesh.
Peeling away the layers of skin.
Come lick my wounds.