I am not some
vaudevillian stripper,
Gypsy Rose.
Chippendale’s
answer to
mundane prose.
Euphemistically
an exotic dancer
skirting the fringe
of your sense
of decorum,
a buffet on which
you binge.
While I flaunt my
lack of self dignity,
baring all for you
to ogle, to feel,
vicariously,
a sensuality,
within,
with which
you don’t dare
permit yourself
to get in touch,
and so you steal.
Consuming small
but significant
pieces of me
to digest
at your leisure.
I am left
on the ground
not a soul around
as I writhe and foam
in desensitized
seizure.

M. Zane McClellan

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