Mr. Sarcastic

Sarah Goodwin


I can hear it in each keystroke, as they coordinate with the cracking, splitting sounds of the breaking of my unbreakable heart

that tone so sinister; so cruel and divisive; so sickly endearing.

Oh my dear, speak to me again in that indifferent tone that so makes my soul wring itself dry of any kind intention.

Ignore me again and again; speak to me as if the next rising wind, sweeping away the words usually so delicate, would make no difference to you.

The devil, the danger, the monster I pretend not to see in your soul calls to that which, in me, wants to play with the fire most.

Tattoo my body with the burns of that fire; let no inch of my skin be left untouched by the torch of the searing pain which you promise, but fail time and time again, to inflict.

Under your gentle touch, the caress of your smooth, smooth fingers let my skin curl at the edges, like parchment held above flame.

Oh my dear, spread that caress again over my parchment skin, ignore the boundaries that I know in your presence I do not possess.

Each touch, too gentle to be gentle; severe in its kindness; painful in its indifference; is pleasantly elusive and seductively ignorant of that which is evident in my eyes, my soul, my shaking hands.

Oh my dear, look upon me once more as if-on the planes of my face, in the quiet flash of my eyelashes opening and closing, the serenity masking my enflamed desire-you see nothing.

Oh my dear, look away once more, over my shoulder and ignore the ravaging creature before you;

Oh my dear, pay no attention to the frittering, kneeling creature that is begging for a flash, a moment, a tiny spark of interest in your face;

Turn away when you know it hurts the most,

But, oh my dear, touch with those burning fingers and glassy eyes, anything in me that was before left unhurt.




Sarah Goodwin is a writer living in Ohio.

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