Ha! I’ve just caught you, the SEX

thug, the vandal who stole into the secret room

where i used to hide. Trespasser! You crept inside

my doll house, sliding your slimy fingers through a crack

in the door. I watched you slash the napkin curtains fastened with scotch tape

and deliberately leave the miniature porcelain toilet

unflushed. Pretending i was dead

asleep, i observed you bankrupting my Monopoly set and then, undressing

my Barbie dolls – (So this is criminal behavior, i thought).

You meticulously disembodied the 2000-piece jigsaw puzzle I had had framed.

But the slow, overly-cautious noise of your evil

hands “woke” me up from my plastic haze. You tried to paint me

back to sleep, but i vomited your ugly lullabies and prosaic, waxless pooey.

And now, not even sedatives will ride me on the surface of a wave. Underneath

the cracked paint of your false dreamscape, i can see

the broken outlines of my land-escape, just barely. Now i can see

SEX. The word sits on the page, thrusting itself toward me.

I can’t look at SEX, the word printed on the page,

without cringing or tearing my SEX to pieces, ripping the page

with the white madness of my eyes. The opposite of desire is death,

said the apocalyptic Tennessee Williams; and through my desire for desire,

death came unexpectantly. You assassinated

my favorite teddy bear — and for that i’ll have you shot.