I did not ask you to touch me inside.

I did not ask you to mold me like clay.

I did not ask you to peel this sensitive part of me wider.

I did not ask you to hold me hard as the world spun

because I did not chose you.

If I had asked for this you would know I was asking.

The palms around me would not jerk me open.

The hands would be a feminine touch.

They would not squeeze the life out of me

but they would let me find myself in them.

They would not rape me

but they would lead me to lead myself.


So is the artist making something sensual?

Or is the artist taring the soul out and dragging it up the throat?


You've got to ask yourself these questions

because everything is art

and every encounter creates something

or chokes it.