Irritation-eyes hold no warmth while looking everywhere
but at me and my adamant eyes
as the words “That’s fine” slip out of thinned lips.

Failure-lashes have never looked so beautiful…

It’s moments like this, that if it were possible,
my heart would tumble down three flights of stairs
and slip-slide across linoleum flooring
before slamming against a grime-glossed wall--
I feel the strength behind the slap you think I gave you.
I feel the sting it caused.

[I wonder how many kisses it will take for you to realize my actions are in earnest.]

Amongst the longing in my heart and the slickness between my hips,
the feel of your eager tongue as you skim it along my hopeful lips,
and the anxiety building armies in my head
at the thrill of what could happen while two bodies lie naked in bed;


I want you so much, your fingers alone
have me moaning 1,2,3,4,5,6, no, 7 times.


But orgasms mean nothing to me
if the sex means nothing to you.
And, although I agree…
it probably would mean more
than nothing at this point…

I want it to mean so much that for the first time ever,
I will have given myself -not just my sex-
at the start of intimacies with a new man.

[It’s this new thing I’m trying,
the belief that maybe if I kept my legs shut
until my heart opened, maybe then…]


This means more to me than hot breath and hard-ons.

I want art; I want artistry.