One is not obligated to the obliging one.
Heads.
Something bespoke is not beholden.
Taíls.
Trail heads.
Heady tales.
⊙
What is my secret?
To appear as though I have a sweet, secret.
This smile whispering to you, making you wonder:
what produces it,
it comes from the desire to make you believe that
í know something that you do not.
To make you wonder until
you must inquire,
“What makes her grin in that
small, lips-closed and
pressed-pursed way?”
To make you want to wipe it off my face,
if you cannot know.
Howl this only makes my grin grow.
Ask me in private, and you will see my upper lip
arch into a sinister snarl.
Because there is no one else t/here.
No one to save you, or overhear the
sound of the feral ferocity,
whose volume keeps rising in my harbour.
Silly beast, it is true:
You are brut(e).
You came for me.
You come to me,
to slay the dragon
stalking me; but, you
now see how it wraps itself around me,
slickly leather wings folding around my shoulders as does a shawl.
See how I play with and stroke the tips of its scaly wings?
It is my shadow companion.
My gossamer wings keeping it warm.
The fire of its breath keeping my second set of wings, steely knives, sharply honed.
This is the power of having an open secret.
Í have nothing to lose by revealing myself, but
you have everything to gain if
í do.
WrittenCasey 