A leap in the skillet

It is conditional, 
Is it not,
That this act of defiance to love,
With the taste of terror on one’s tongue, is only a shot of foreplay?
I danced smooth,
Ran my fingertips over my dress
And said it again,
My love dwells on second guess.
It is conditional,
Shaking my foot about
With a metal trap digging into my ankles.
Yet this anguish,
Holds my quivered shot of pain,
Silently,
Looking for a place to hide in my brain.
I ran my fingers over my dress,
And said it again.
Look with eyes re-focusing,
What is in the grass,
See how whatever it may be slithers,
And slides cool,
Creating a riptide,
Away from me.
It is conditional,
Is it not,
To dance in the fire,
And no longer cry out that the flame is hot,
Hot and wretched,
Hot and protective,
Hot and this here,
Reflective.
I ran my fingers over my dress, 
And said it again.
That this mere relationship,
Is conditional,
Is it not?

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