I’ve become obsessed with your belt.
You know - the one you wear to work every day.
The thick, wide strip of leather that sits
coiled on the dresser until you get dressed in the morning.
To you, it’s simply a thing, useful in its purpose, nothing you pay attention to
except when you put it on and take it off.
To me it’s alive
dreaming, waiting, wanting to fulfill its true nature of inflicting pain.

I stroke it every morning with trembling fingers
I, too, am
dreaming, waiting, wanting…



This is the first thing I've written since I was a kid that other people have seen. It just burst out of me on the way to work yesterday - and it is autobiographical Comments, criticism are most welcome - please be kind when you tell me how bad it is!