So fine.

I'll just write then.

Write and hope to find myself somewhere between the verbs and nouns. I'm afraid I'm something as non-essential as an adjective--not even the dignity of a piece of punctuation. I'd like to be an extended metaphor or some other sort of dazzling image, something grandiose--literary masterbation.

Instead, I'm feverish, over-blown, an extraneous bit of fluff, a bit of sparkle to fool the senses of the unrefined.

I lie.

I exaggerate.

I want to tempt and tease you until you fall into my embrace but I'm afraid you'll find nothing there. Not critical tension. Not carnal delight. Not PoMo play. I, myself, am rounded, soft. My strength likes hidden beneath layers of warm and fragrant skin. My edge is a sharpened tongue. Even so, my wicked tongue cuts away my own giving flesh. Cuts away the padding so that I stand there: bones that dance with their own garrish and macabre cadence.

I feel as if I'm struggling to breathe through blankets of conjestion and pollution. As if I can't quite fill my lungs with a full breath.