pounce

you regard me as a meal.
perhaps nothing more.
or even just a pleasant scent,
like apple pie, cooling on the sill after baking,
when you know you are on a diet
or it isn't your pie to have
or you are just not in the mood
for the sweet stickiness
with the crumbling crust.
I feel your eyes more than see them.
before my defenses can react
you are behind them,
inside me,
prying loose secrets and confessions
that make you smile,
make you smirk with the knowledge
that you have found
the soft underbelly of my soul.
and the only question lingers.
the only question lingers
is what you will do with me,
now that you have pinned me to the dry grass
and torn me open
without any more effort than existing...


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.