Valley of the Dolls

It is so intricate, this dance we do for

love.

Questing for utopia found

in another person.

Our match; our other half.

Our fathers chased our mothers,

wooing them.  Pursuing their queen with

voracity, intent, and purpose.

Now

courting is dead.  If the queen

doesn’t run, another queen will catch

her beloved’s eye.

She must be fascinating; she must be

mysterious; she must feign disinterest

and walk the tightrope between apathy

and inquiry, wondering if her bait is effective.

Plastic crowns require no investment, no effort.

He is satiated for minutes and wonders why.

Without intimacy, without choice, we make each other

bleed.  We burn in this dance.

It’s bullshit.

I am my own match.  I am king and queen

of my kingdom.  I am not a prize to be won, nor

a peacock spreading her feathers to entice

her mate.

Walk beside me, unpainted, no cloak

to distort my essence.

Harmony cannot be found

without focus, dissonance only

fixed with practice.

My song still plays

alone.