stamp out the innuendoes
before they get loose
from their ribbon-tied cages.

privately I harvest
far deep, down, down,
down,
in a jar,
my desires, feelings,
thoughts

once in awhile
creep,
creep,
creep
a knockin’, does it come back?
“Torture again?” I ask.
“I’m afraid so,” it responds.

Exceptional emotional pangs
dart to and fro
throughout my means.