Sitting across from my

naked body

I can’t help but ask her

why

why she thinks so much

about her

sex.

 

Why she dreams

up vibrancy

and creates

stories of need

in her breasts:

 

“I want affection!”

she cries

from across the glass paned

tabletop,

“I want

to be touched,

to feel

in a million

different ways

than I ever have

before.”

 

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

Whispers,

“It’s mine

and I want it

now”

 

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

sex

is unimportant?

 

Why must I

pretend?

 

I lean with love

across the table

take her hand,

place it onto her

crotch

and say:

 

“It is yours to give

and it is yours

to keep”

and I allow myself

to simply

stop

pretending.

 

 

 

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