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Click hereI read your mind
like it was a trashy novella,
with young, married Dorian
falling for mysterious rebel Clark
and giving him head in the garage
while clueless hubby Franklin
busies himself with some butter
and the thin end of a flashlight
down in the basement.
I read every page of your mind,
sure I could stop at any moment,
repulsed and, maybe, just maybe,
the tiniest bit intrigued,
with what your sick fucking mind
would think up next.
Then you break the silence
and tell me you’ve been reading
my mind too, and you’ve never,
ever, seen someone do that
with a spatula before.
And for the first time
I think I just might
support book burning,
under the right circumstances,
of course.