Don't ask me.

I'm not the tour guide for some
Wild Expedition
where we'll spend forty days
eating tree bark and bird berries,
and sleeping under banks of
mosquito-infested mud,
running from creatures with spears shouting
I WANNA EAT YOU
and beasts with five-hundred eyes and crab claws
and appetites

I am not the hostess for you to cling to at a dance,
where the cacophony of swirling gowns
and unintelligible, irreverent twitter
will plunge us into insanity;
where women become monsters with
razor-sharp tongues
and amorphous globs of makeup
and suffocating uproars of stagnant perfume;
where men stampede,
their words effervescent with wine,
a nauseating decadence

These are words, for heaven's sake.
They are still, waiting for you,
and I promise they will not bite,
even if they are a language you swear you've never seen,
and they seem to be chanting for your flesh
or worse, your grade.
Yes, trip, grope, tangle in a spider web of sounds.

I will not hold your hand anymore.

Explore.