From the Pen of a Stalker

You beautiful woman, you.

Such is your beauty, your countenance, your shy demeanour
That brings admirers from near and afar.
Men of such persuasion and will, casting a glow upon my pallid person
That I can never hope to compete with.
You sashay down the street and all I can do is follow you with my eyes
Till you turn the corner and vanish, leaving in your wake a trail of perfume
So heady it makes the blood rush to my head
And I stumble forward blindly, clutching at the silken wisps of your hair
That are now far beyond my reach.

Yet as I lay on the ground and see your fine form fade into the distance
I am filled with the terror of one facing loss
Like he who finds himself in a desert with no water for miles around.
This thirst must be quenched, by you and only you.
I want you.
I need you.
I must have you.
And I will do anything to get you.

I watch you stroll down the promenade,
your back turned to me,
But I still know it is you.
I know you from the way your bag rubs against your hip
And the way that little tendril of hair curls around the lobe of your ear.
Even in the shade of dark glasses I know your piercing gaze seeks me
Because you need me too.
Just as you need all the men who swoon as you pass them by.
You need to know you are wanted and worshipped
So your colossal ego, one that belies your petite frame
Is kept well fed and satisfied.

You think you are the Mistress of us all
Yet you are nothing but a slave, just like we all are
To your own blinding beauty.
A female Narcissus in love with herself
Who wants to be loved by men as well
And who wants to hear the jingle of cash,
And see the glitter of diamonds
And feel the swish of the silks that they all take turns presenting
So you would choose them.
Yet all these are merely aperitifs for your pride;
You just want more and more, as much as we are willing to give
To attain you.

Ha! You're nothing but a trinket up for a never-ending auction
To be sold to the highest bidder.
Only, the whole Universe wants you and the stakes will keep getting higher
And you'll remain for the rest of your life on the auctioneer's table
Listening to the gavel fall, and fall, and fall again.

You shameless whore, don't you realise
You're just condemned to walk the streets for the rest of your life
With us all yapping at your feet
Like dogs behind a coveted piece of meat?

But what else do you expect?
You are after all, Perfection.
Forever desired but ever unattainable
Just as enslaved by us as we are by you.