Her Sex

Sitting across from my

naked body

I can’t help but ask her


why she thinks so much

about her



Why she dreams

up vibrancy

and creates

stories of need

in her breasts:


“I want affection!”

she cries

from across the glass paned


“I want

to be touched,

to feel

in a million

different ways

than I ever have



Her heat spills

across the room

and it is more than

a tension:

it is a fury,

a need

washed away

from the flush

of men’s hands

she said no to.


“I want it.”

She cooly


“It’s mine

and I want it



Her eyes shine

with a wildness

that shakes

the sharp corners

of the table’s edge,

of grooved guilt.

of stolen memory,

of intimacy lost.


Why must I pretend

that her


is unimportant?


Why must I



I lean with love

across the table

take her hand,

place it onto her


and say:


“It is yours to give

and it is yours

to keep”

and I allow myself

to simply






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