To be Ophelia-
“…think yourself a baby”
“I shall obey, my lord”
I wait for an indifferent man to absolve me of my honeypot sins.
Care quiet, care meek.
He can shut up my faith-
wrap His strong arms around
my soft morals, alleviate the tension.
I give myself, He won’t take all I offer
but He will take what He pleases.
His abysmal sheets swallow me whole,
except for the orifices saved for His delight.
Sweet sleep need not come until He fulfills His rugged might.
I have no wish outside optimal oblivion.
He knows not of me
nor any of my thoughts,
I submit full and freely.
Consent is my name,
call it Your way!
My finger itches for the Devil who never fed her
in the yellow glossed labyrinth,
the feral freak shows fellate the Luciferian fakes
in the French-horn big band underground respite.
Semen fills the hearts of all the little bitches who thought they were special,
I told them you need to visit Hell
to know what you’re asking for.
Sweet, sweet, sleep is
all that I want
I don’t want the opus/
I don’t want the fuck and cuddle/
I want the real real capital T “Time of Their Lives,”
I’m the double entendres Geek-
I Know and I Know What I’m Good For.
No euphemisms in this Perpetual Purgatory.
Sam Romersa is a filmmaker, a poet, a painter, an existential dreader, hailing from Modesto, California- American capital of meth, car theft, and oh, almonds too. She lives in New York City, currently engaged in chasing that beatnik dream chock full of fleeting respite, ambiguous relations, and petty crime. She loves pugs and the sunshine and letting her work speak for her.