the plagiarist

things that do not belong to you
glisten beautifully through glass
i’ve felt you watch me
my words so supple
wet
dark
young
fecund
your rapid hot breath
pressed to the screen
wanting to touch the softness
you traced my pearls with your finger
lifted the skirt
to the top of my unwilling thighs
became the glow of my words
a patterned thief
unoriginal scoundrel
you forced yourself inside
taken what belongs to me
bloodied and torn open
i am the central park blogger
your poems are lies
add a line between
both hemispheres of my brain
they were my thoughts first
i look back at you with knowing eyes
as you read this