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So here I am:
my forbidden fruit is ripe
and I am begging to be lost, swimming in circles  
through the sea of my simple blissful enthusiasm--a curse
of a trademark--I beg for sharks.
I seem to find myself all too quickly
and take refuge in the storms, the sea monsters,
and reluctantly hoist my gasping body back 
onto the simple intrigue of the beach--the white 
sand, like rice--to discover 
the pacific complication of our beauty.
As if sea breezes would never condense to forest mist,
we linger in tropics: Capricorn, Cancer.
But depression wouldn't be so prevalent in these family ties
if it weren't quite the obdurate disease
such that penetration is no less than rape.
Swimming towards freedom, towards bondage,
is a way of life.

And the ocean is turning colder--
these must be the English seas, where I rule the waves;
and here you are, were, shall be,
such a brave knight.
Laughter, your chivalry;
a kiss, your weapon of choice.
And for your not knowing my distress,
I was a princess,
I will let down my golden hair,
that I have washed for your noble rescue
with honeysuckle for softness, chamomile for strength,
if you promise me a honeymoon
back to the beach:
the storms, and the sea monsters.

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