Leave my side.
Why remain? Antagonising me.
Brushing past my shoulder.
Defying me, provoke me, poke me into a challenge.
She told me of the wolves and how they feast.
Catch what they please.
Interpret as they see fit.
Patterns of their fantasies, their dreams.
She spoke of dangers as one of them hung by her neck.
As one of them licked her ear.
And I saw the anguish on her mouth.
The earthquake across her tongue.
They are blind, she would say.
And I say they can see all too well.
She warns me of their appetite.
Their lawless hands.
And I say, their motions are protected by the law.
Their immorality is something uncured.
They love the fact that they are not tame.
And they peruse and persist and multiply across our bodies.
Their words are an orchestra.
She was a lead singer.
Revealing all her sad tales.
And they applauded her, screeching how well she composes fiction.
“Flaming June” by Frederic Leighton, 1st Baron Leighton (1830-1896)