they say girls don't touch themselves
that's a man's job
you pluck the hairs from your ****** skin
prepping for the feast that shall inevitably last forever
the blood has spilled
a ritual you long wished for
and at times
wish to take back
there is a mark upon my *******
they are plump now
tender and sore
my legs quiver often
but they say don't touch yourself
don't please yourself
that's a man's job
but my legs still quiver
my mind wanders where it's told not to
it was supposed to feel like spring
like dew in the morning on wild grass
im reaching for soil to bury my hands in
maybe they'll come undone
they'll unclench themselves
from blood stained palms
and soak the earth that will swallow me whole
maybe in another life
i'd become a rose
i've always yearned to be seen
to be watered
to be held close
inhaled
and exhaled
the sweetest breath to bare
hang me to dry so my petals unfurl to the ground
and you'd pick me up
place me in a pretty wooden box for safe keeping
-deangeline

Tears losing temperature in his absence
Untouchability in his negligence
Hatred in his unspoken silence
Poisoned me with his memories
Where did I go wrong in loving him?

How do you taste a woman?
Do you let your breath
Take over her skin
Or do you,
Gently
Uncover
Her treacherous,
Deceitful, delightful touch?

Do you take her sight for granted,
As if it was yours to own,
As if she would
Never vanish,
Or do you know
She's nothing more
Than a chimera on a wall,
Than Clotho's spinning thread
In an ancient story of forgiveness...

Do you trust her soft and humid body,
Like a silky cloth soaked in
Spicy peppermint oil,
Or do you fear
Her lips
As if they'll
Harm the pulse
Of your easily grown
Desire for all that she has enchanted?

Do you let her fingers linger
Somewhere in between
The locks of hair,
As they were
Her only to poses,
And make them come alive
Like serpents shadows on a desert's moonlight?

All in all, a woman cannot be
Taken for granted,
As she isn't there
Only because
You see her
Near.
No.
A woman is
A passing shadow
For your mesmerized vision.

A woman is that summer rain
On your heated body,
Or that devastating
Storm on a
Moroccan
Desert.
She is both
Dust and wind,
Love and hatred,
Hope and despair.
She is nothing more
Than clear, cold water.

So drink the woman
As you taste
Water
Turned
Into good wine
And tell me, stranger...
How do you taste a woman?