Oxytocin Abuser

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