Volatile Goddess

Another close call.
Another piece dies,
      'cause souls come in slices
      like cherry pies.
Desirous fits drive greedy hands
      to devour them.
I can't meet their demands.
My cherry pie soul is sweet and naive
but my mind is coarse and tart
not so easily deceived.

My feminist men-will-use-abuse-and-leave you spiel
comes from somewhere.
everything does I suppose.
It's exhausting really;
a little section of my brain
is devoted to believing
every man betrays and lies,
every man will ask you to be their fuckbuddy,
will block the door if you try to leave,
will grip your arm if you turn away,
throw you on the bed,
clip your wings,
cage you.
(yeah, even the ones you've dated for a year)

The rest of me longs for lost optimism
wants to ignore my mistakes
                      (or is it theirs?)
I don't even differentiate anymore.
I think I might attract it...
"Hello,
nice to meet you,
I'm a sensitive soul,
care to take advantage?"
So much of me wants to believe good exists
but I could make lists about how and where
it died.

I can rely on my strength,
        strung along by love and hate.
(And of course the ever unkind fate)
Not dichotomous,
Not one or the other,
Both.
And new loves fit like new gloves.
Warm,
comforting,
soothing to your skin.
Until you wear them out,
stretch 'em thin,
utilize 'em to their fullest extent
and throw 'em in the bin.

"If love be rough with you,
Be rough with love."

Then when I weep
it is bitter,
the tears stinging my eyes like acid rain
draining the stormy heavens.
The clouds clear,
-I hold my breath-
enjoy the warmth of the sunshine
and rosy cheeks,
watching.
watching and waiting for the inevitable downpour.