Tortoise and the Hare.

Frugal with my offerings
what little I have is given
with turtle like hesitation
I was never one for racing.

Too scary it is to be in the lead.
I was given a candy bar once for outstanding leadership
to be young again,
tugging on a rope screaming “PULL”.

As an adult I pull my pants down.
Convincing those bloated with doubt of my undying affections
manipulating the course
a slight pink hole used for misdirection.

Weighed down by another’s needs and wants,
cemented feet,
I’m thrown into their rivers.

It burns you know
taking in all that water.
Odd how that which sustains also kills.

Pacing is important.
I always licked my plate clean
barely a breath between bites.
My excess has always been an issue,
so eager and hungry for something savory.

Heart burn,
I regurgitate most of what I believe to be edible.
Still searching for my last dish.

Hopping from bed to bed,
Am I the hare?
Focusing on using the wrong pink hole,
maybe lead with a kiss?
Slow burns can be good.

I’m a turtle with a broken heart
hiding in an unbreakable shell
longing for a reason
to poke one’s head out.


Effecting my truth with unbuttoning.



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