A twitch of the lips,
a flick of the hips,
a trace of the slip-
up that occurs
every single time

you look at me. I
can't be tamed to
suffer such transfixion
quietly. My mistake
is clear as ice and

colder still, stealing
over this hot muscle,
slower beating for the
change in temperature
and meaning. Changes

causing me to scream,
run blue murder round my
vocal chords 'til all you'll
hear's an echoing murmur;
they shouldn't quite

define me, but they do.