Cocksure, you swagger into the cantina,
of yourself, hot from the heat of battle
proud…unbearably proud.
I loathe you and your sureness, your ease
you sidle up to the bar, royalty
not your everyday, common gunslinger.
I loathe your boastful voice, your roaming hands,
arrogant eyes.
I don’t know whether to wrap my arms
your neck and strangle the life from you, or
you into a strong embrace and never let you go.
Your wildness excites me and
I loathe myself for that.
Later, in the kitchen, I scrub the pots with angry hands
hate myself as I listen out for the sound of your voice.
When it whispers in my ear, a hot breath from the desert,
I flush from your closeness, your hands
quite touching my waist, your body
quite pressed against mine.
I loathe my reaction.
But my brusque
