There are times,
indeed most times,
when I feel like a fake,
an impostor,
not entitled to the gifts you send,
to the caresses you extend
in return for my playing in the mud.

I am a liar, a cheat, a false lover,
a pretender--oh, I am every falseness
all in one, from Trojan horse
to human skeleton on the moon.

And mysteriously, you seem to love me
all the more for it,
and throw out snares that draw me in
again and again,
and though I rip and turn away
from your gossamer nets,
still I long for their soft touch
and come again to be ensnared.

Stop playing!
Take me because I cannot give myself.


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