Wild Things

this is the bass line, splitting your hairs, breaking your thumbnails. you are a lump of warm fur, anger behind that smile, shyness your apology. you're hiding in the background of your misery, a history in tangled hair. your throat is too raw to tolerate a scream, but you make a noise the shape of your heart, your intentions. punch a hole in the wall. "there's your door; is it small enough?" but we slide past the words, run in circles, the center is fear. a host of suggestions filter, swarm like bees without your help. "you're out of control. you're out of control."