Do They Demean?

She looks into my eyes and tells me,
Repeating the unintended propaganda of who I am,
A nice guy, with few faults, every compliment
Rolling off her tongue unknowing of what goes on alone, inside;
We dance, us two, amidst forty others,
Locking eyes, laughing and laughing,
Waiting and waiting, but I dare not do what a man does,
Because I lose my own battles in the dark far too often
To even think of losing a battle with her in its middle;
She leaves, I stay, moving without conviction,
Smiling while crying, as those around me stumble blindly,
Alcohol and ossification damaging their sight,
Water and sobriety clearing mine;
One girl bumps into me again, and again, and again,
Wrapping herself around me, leaning in with drunken intent,
With closed eyes, in ignorance of any potential consequence
That wearing her skirt as high as her waist may bring,
And I pull away, shuddering at the thought of what someone else,
Equally as drunk and with a snakelike mind,
Would have done to this girl,
Leaving her dangling above the decision of a flight or a baby;
Then I see my ensnarer again, holding hands with an on-off lover,
As they walk away, my chance walks with them,
And his laughter seems directed at me as he wins again,
While I stand wondering if I am as different as she believes me to be,
Or do my temptations in solitude demean what I do the rest of the time?