You like to insist
that you were my first man;
the first to hold me in solid arms,
in a frame that would protect me.
You teased me saying I was half in love,
I was. Continue reading
When I was very young, I made her.
Or should I say, I met her?
She was woven from the threads
of my imagination,
stars pinned in wild, dark hair,
gold dust on her feet.
I want to run my tongue
along your crooked teeth,
bite your lips,
feel you breathe.
And if you want
a piece of me,
all you have to do
I’m morbidly fascinated with edges. The edges of blades, glinting and indifferent. The edges of rooftops, sudden and unforgiving. The edges that separate me from another, the invisible lines and definitions of our relationships, the tangible ridges of our clothes.
There’s no denying she’s pretty. The type of pretty that takes hours of consideration, lotions, and a calculator to add up those calories. She moves through the world like it’s all just scenery; backgrounds for popped hips and glossed lips and if the lighting’s not perfect, her filter is.