Projection

I am your fantasy girl. I am your dream. I am your nympho dressed in blue draping beauty. I am your fears tucked into faded blue dungarees. I am just out of reach in my tight torn shorts. I am burned into your brain, chained and buckled for your pleasure. I am all things feminine, including your dungeon demon dominatrix. I am your hidden longing that pulls at your balls during strolls with your wife on sunny days. I am the food you wish to eat when out to dinner with your girlfriend and she asks you “Why do you look a million miles away?” I am the always open diner by the side of the highway, full of greasy apps that you love to lick off the tips of your fingers. I am the endless possibility that stretches beyond the black horizon down the unending double yellow lines that stretch on to the Milky Way at the center of your galaxy. I am the red fingernails, glistening over their sheen, pressed between two puffy pink lips so invitingly clean, no matter how many men they have already pleased or with whom they’ve been. These lips don’t tell. I am everything you’ve ever wished for and nothing — effervescent vapor fleetingly glimmering in the fading light like a rainbow cast in the sky just out of your reach, but holding out the promise of a warm, wet release for those who thirst for my delicious dew. I am heaven in a wildflower. I am eternity in an hour. I am the tremors of Tartarus and I have tamed the hounds of Hell. Before my visage they heel in…