I slide my hand into the crease
between your thighs.
This space is steaming and blistered,
but my hand is made of dry ice. How
you shiver when I touch you.
My lips are lined with thick honey.
How often do you think of them? Often
enough for fixation. My pretty pink tongue
plays with the margins of my jaw,
reaching for the warm inside of yours.
Can you feel the pull from my open chest?
My breasts stare you in the eye. They tease
you and I let slip a breathy giggle. My ribs
are overwhelmingly touchable. You visualize
running your fingertips across them.
I do not love you. Can I kiss you
while you weep? Can you dig your
fingers deep in my flesh? Jerk me back
to when I felt forgiving. You will
because they all do. You are not special