Even at my best I'm worst with you. Maybe it's me and my self consciousness and how I'm putty in your hands.
Maybe it's your radiance, your faint realisation of the effect you have on my sorry heart.
Maybe it's your deliberate, reckless manipulation of the
ground beneath my feet so that I'm consistently, helplessly at your
mercy.
Maybe it's my masochism, my hopeless need to please you, betraying every last ounce of my feministic ideals.
Maybe, just maybe, you're my supernova. My power, my pleasure, my pain.
