She scares the bejesus out of me,
always has, even
before we met off hours,
even before I let her down
not just out of practice, but out of time,
this old-fashioned sense of morality
(whipped into me by countless nuns)
at odds with my desires,
and perhaps is the reason for my inability,
being judged by my peers in a bedroom
rather than in a court of law,
raising the most
basic question:
Who do you love?
Needing to prove something
I clearly cannot
prove,
so relinquish the battlefield to men
more worthy than I,
this odd dream
crushed like weed-
old flowers, the sweet scent
made sour by my inability.
These are the times when wise men
know when to walk away,
when down deep, I know I'm not wise,
not even smart enough to know
when I'm licked
, fighting some petty demon
inside myself against whom
I always lose.
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