Carcinogenic

people always seem to expect more than I can give them
they want their Sin
to be trim and neat,
dressed to the nines
elegant and fancy on a golden platter
they want it raw sometimes, or served
with a side of absolution

but there are already a thousand reasons
why I can't give them what they ask for -
what sits limply inside of their heads
thrumming like a dead-beat drum
day-to-day, that ten-ton reminder

the worst part is that
I can hear the way they want
from miles, yards away
their skin slipperyslick rubber
with that sickly anticipation;
makes them clammy, axious
in-over-their-heads

I tell them not to fixate
on these push-pin desires
stuck beneath their yielding, mortal flesh
but their belligerence, so astounding as it is,
makes their sticky tongues dart back out
to lick again at those carcinogens
that brand their wayward hearts

and in my constant state of reflection
I like to think myself above their piteous being
I tell them softly, so it sounds like a promise,
that I will not bend to their whims
despite my refusal meaning that I cannot
mold them to calm, complacent drones

No.
I will disappoint them all,
feel their silent wrath,
hated disapproval
sink deep into my bones, twine
vicious vines around my ribs

I tell them again:
I will disappoint you all
If only because I can