You turn me on like

You are one of those people, it's clear, who needs help. I think you should stop speaking in a low, attractive voice whenever you call. Stop making me think of velvet blankets and the smell of rain on hot cement or that first taste of cinnamon on my tongue. I miss you in tiny earthquakes. In little underground explosions. My soil is a hot disaster. Stop inciting stirrings, movements between us, little rebellions, causing chaos in all of my darker places. The top half of my body is in gross political warfare with the lower. One part of me is roaring and the other wholly disapproves.
You are beautiful danger. Do not make me open up. Some books are bound tightly for a reason. Stop wearing clothes the way you do, don't have them cling to your body like that. God knows you are beautiful and unfair. I think perhaps you should spare a thought, for those who are sick over you. Burning up with you, damp with you. You're a slow fever. Don't be so engaging, clever or amusing. You are causing confusion and jams in tight places. You are a purposeful accident. An accident in waiting. The type of accident with casualties spanning from me to you and here to there, a potential tragedy, a stunning unborn disaster. Should I touch you?  I must not enter. I should not enter, but I might.


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