It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your crooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to whatever song is playing in
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
Your good morning,
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
I want to talk about you.
sharing whiskey beneath
somebody else’s sheets, when he says,
I like it when you wear my shirts.
They make you look pure.
I laugh and take another swig
before getting up to use the bathroom.
There, bathed in holy yellow light,
I look at myself in the cracked mirror:
Little girl in an oversized shirt
with bare legs and a butchered tongue,
holding onto him to avoid coming undone.
I should leave, I think.
I should go home, climb into bed, and
try to forget this entire thing.
But instead, I climb back into his chest,
shape my body into one of his limbs,
and say, Take out my mouth,
kiss me hard, pull my pants down
and I’ll moan how you like.
Give me a new name to wear,
a new face to study.
Help me out of this skin.
I so easily brand myself as yours
because I do not want to be mine.