Impossible to believe again?
In these victorian nights of corseted heat and whale bone cold,
my arms empty of eternity
spinsterish in their claim of fierce independence,
buffeted by the wind of chance
I spin in kundalini rhythms,
veiled in my claims of competence.

This burn to be controlled, protected
from the scent of bra-burn liberation
by the rise of the chromosome x.
The guiding control of a strong and gentle hand in the small space of my back,
not the temporary steel of play time hand cuffs
or smirky submission, but the terrifying need
to serve.

I seek-find for a benevolent master, one
experienced in the art of the velvet glove.
One, on whom to heap the accumulated gifts of a lifetime.
One to shroud in the myrrh of domesticity, intoxicate with the frankincense of devotion,
enrich, fat and happy, with my gold gift of adoration.

I long to crest the wave of behind the throne success, in Dior skirt prim and pipe/slipper smile.
Smug in the across the room acknowledgement of belonging to.

as always, the reverse is also true

I know the testosterone fire of ambition burning with the want of recognition... in my own rite.
I have the chafe scars of harness on struggling skin, breaking in the run for a bondage of increased freedom.
I choose the absolutes of one and find no comfort without the other.
To balance along this precipice is not my forte,
preferring always to jump or fall.
I do not accumulate the patience to endure the fear.