If only you could feel your appearance from my POV
other people call the shit sexy
windswept tyranny
causing accidental epiphanies
your existence to me is perplexing
a closet locked by a poisoned tipped key
killing time until you can free
ferocities on my simplest fragility
other people call the shit sexy
I call it a cataclysmic travesty
of mathematical sorcery
constantly challenging the concept of sovereignty
between my body and envy
and your lips and kissing
out here looking like heaven’s enemy
reflection detection a purposeful atrocity
other people call the shit sexy
I call it molecular manipulation of my limited ocularity
and addictive insincerity
If only you could see what you look like through me
you’d conquer hell easily