Mouth Like Mine

Mouths like mine, glistening through pen and ink on paper.
Illustrated fullness and so much inferred gloss.
Eyes furried with lashes.
Glamour heavy,
A gaze soo sultry that it drips sooty kohl.
Exaggerations
Additions
A body divided.
A beauty fashioned together.
The mathematics of artificial aesthetic.
And yet through the all the noise
Of features I do not have.
Within a geometry I cannot posses.
I see a mouth like my own.

Relearning to submerge

I gave up the possibility of marriage and a house.
A fat pug, a chubby baby, safety in arms that held me and a framed degree.

Can I dive into the water instead?
Water deep and dark?

Can I relearn to love the feeling of being submerged?

 

I remember at 10, after diving off the diving board.

The electricity as I approached, dizzying.

Hitting the water and then …. silence.

 

Can I live there in the water just before resurfacing again?
I really loved that swimming silence.
Before becoming afraid.

 

What is good is not drowning, when I am endlessly choking on my own fear?

No shores, I will allow islands but no shores of safety.
No pool edges to cling to.
No false safe shores at least.
No, not for me.
For as soon as I take steps, my skin burns and I shrivel.

Please, can I swim again?
I think some drowning is needed.

No alms required

My pussy isn’t a begging bowl.

I do no offer it open and pleading
trying to capture any affection you should choose to fill it with.

Do you imagine that later I sift through the contents while lying on the cold tiled bathroom floor?
Fingers deep in my cunt searching for something resembling love as your reckless indecision pours out white and sticky onto my thighs?

My mouth isn’t trying to hold your tongue between my teeth.
Why would I silence a voice I have pleaded to hear so many times? Do you know how much of my own blood I swallow each time I bite down on the words your actions make me fearful to say?

I do not tie your hands together with my pink rope. Neither do I shackle your feet to one place with gold bands, red silk, nor the weight of so much guilt.

I only offered water, asked for stories, and gave you the warmth of my bed to rest from your days of running.
All the while seeing the expanse of your dreams and hoping you would not cower at the sheer magnitude of my own.

Wet Earth Pierced

Sexy is summer sweat and realizing how the musk of wet earth first pierced reminds me of the first time I explored you from behind.
I love the smell.

I always want to be deliberate with you.
I coaxed and nudged, raining down kisses as I dug deeper still.

Wet earth, I only dig in wet earth.
Let me drown if I must, breathing only enough to continue.

Your mouth a prayer, i can never forget the first time i watched desire play over your face.

I want to tear into you still.

Sweaty Yoga Spaces

I watched the sky turn pink as I stretched to the east
Further and further I released towards a brick wall.

The humidity drew us all close.
Snuck under our shirts,
Soaked our chests and ran down the length of our spine
Drops of sweat like fingers making you gasp upon contact.

Eyes wide. Undeniable to even the most unobservant.
Something. is. happening.
Someone is responding.

Me.

The wood, fuck, the smell of the wood floor made everything hotter.
The smell of cedar driving the unending heat.
I parted my mouth to pant just for a moment and suck the heat in as I lay back.
Awash in my heat.

Slick.

I licked the salt on my upper lip, immediately prompting me to reach out for an equally sweaty jar of water.
Moisture met moisture as I drank down deeply

I prayed to my tiny secret gods that I always remember the spaces and moments where I can make time stop and my hands can remember further than the places they are able to touch.

Sanctuary in the simple

Pleasure in minutes, moments, even morsels.
Pleasantries in teas.
Traveling to get the tea.
The halo of a street light on the way there.
The scent of the tea brewing.
That first sacred sip.
They push me through, past a deep nothing into wonderment.
I don’t wake when I should, so I stare and glory at a lamp.
My prayers are written in careful neat writing to all that is ordinary.
My shelves are tidy.
My hats are where they “should” be.
Tiny victories.
Invisible battles won.
Seeing the good.
I seek out  possibility.
I hold on to her fast.
I raise her from the dead when no light exists.
Every night requires incantation.
When my heart beats and I sweat, praying for sleep.
Sick with anxiety. Riddled with failure.
Dying for a rhythm that allows me to speak a language with those that walk illuminated by her light.
Me a mere shadow looming large
May I always find sanctuary in the simple