Desperate for your mind to be intertwined with mine,

I writhe and thrash into your seductions.

By being intimate we are lying:

pretending to have reached a resolution

-when really all I can feel is acute stinging

of my body and emotions.

Without engaging your feelings,

all I feel is friction;

down: your sciroccian winds are rasping

my spirit and global expectations.

All the power games, belittling,

and condescension,

are dehydrating.

Dry and raw I feel exhaustion,

because I always end up submitting,

to your reduction:

of me to a body for fucking.