Quicksand
William Page

​If I could, I’d give up thinking of this cold
slutty bitch that hits me with love’s hardest mallet.
All the boys dance with her, but I’m weak
as a rag doll flopping across the floor.
My billets-doux weren’t even unfolded.
She won’t answer the phone.
I admit I even adore the zits on her cheeks.
She could have had leprosy, and I
would accept it as a bridal veil.
Her neck is a column of flesh I want
to kiss till my lips burn hot as a whore
house fire. But I’m falling on my face
over the log of her nonchalance.
Halleluiah! I see the light. She’s not
the cruel witch coyly luring me into
her vagina, not the spider poisoning
me in her web. She’s just a girl who
doesn’t want me. I need to pull myself
out of the quicksand of my obsession.