My pants tighten as I scrawl across photos of you
alone in the sewing room of my grandmother's house.
Nobody's been pricked here for years, maybe decades.

The stroking of my pen against the paper
sounds rhythmic, a resilient beating and motion
as I delicately carve out ***** verse into the white.

The ink stands black as widows' veils
against the **** colors of your pallid hands
pressed firmly against your etiolated *******.

Your red nails filed into clear, elegant points
act as arrows guiding me to the carmine of your lips
which hang low in a whimpering, begging pout.

My eyes strut southward following the lips' drop
until they arrive to the spread, blossoming like a rose
in the spring, or erupting into the conflagration of July's fireworks.

Photo after photo I stare and write my hedonistic desires
the gravity of which could **** me to the second circle
or rather, I think as I lift my pen, just help me to get off.

Rumble.

The earth loved San Francisco so much

Boom.

That he opened wide and swallowed it whole

Crash.

I'd love to make an earthquake with you

Moan.

The smell of coffee and black sharpie fill your senses
Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap the sheet around your naked body
Your head hurts more with every movement, every thought.

The sticky note on the door
written in small, squished, boy-like writing
"I never promised you forever."

a nefarious dead-pan glance and
all I can think about is how I have
your favorite book tucked away, safe,
because I want an excuse for my
trembling hands and the constant
chugging of my mind at times, the ever-
present headache that originates in
my stomach. I am hosting a
cavernous black hole there
that spreads it's lips
wider and
wider
and

w   i     d             e             r

every day that washes over,
leaving me a little paler a little thinner a
little hungrier than
before

I am s
        i
     n
   k
  i
n
g

Daughter’s of eve.
I have looked and I have seen
The breakfast you have brought to your men
The ugly millionaires you have married
the married business man you met on the ferry
The sad younger man at the bar
The customer whose eyes you couldn’t see though his cigar
I saw you trying to fit into his house
But the door was so small
So small
And you couldn’t fit.
Not with you and what he called, “big-*** hips”
So you go in the French doors in the back
That makes you feel like the eggs you brought him in the morning
Weak and runnier than their yolk sac
The men that first held you like the last orange on the
Last tree in the last garden of the world
Then slowly squeezed out all your juice
Right onto his lapping tongue
Because it turns out he wasn’t hungry just thirsty
And your skin was just a cup that held some juice
To quench his thirst
And wasn’t it worst when you first burst
Into tears over than man
Tears too heavy too many and too hot
To see anything else
To parallel park to leave your mark
On something new to write or speak
To dream or to think
To work out math problems on the board
To not question your man as your lord
I still I hope that your words will carry more weight than
Than number between your feet on the scale
That you will not let your grades drop lower
Than the ******* on your chest
Held high in cups you wish were
higher up in the alphabet than the letter
C.
So why can’t you see.
Why can’t you be
An A.
An a women student mother mentor
A daughter of eve
Who shouldn’t still have to pay
For the way the garden ended but in a pear-shape

In a steady, illiterate static
this room is my study.
And you are my book.

Legs spread 'cross my lap
hands firmly upon my frame.
I lean in to see the words.

Your soft lips graze mine
like branded cattle in a glen.
Wet and cold we sit there.

Then your tongue begins flickering
beguiling like the serpent of Eden.
How could I resist but to bite?

I kiss you sweetly
and you kiss me back.
Minutes pass in the study.

My tongue examines your mouth
like a cartographer mapping a new world.
Each slick and ***** is wholly new to me.

Teeth clink like crystal glasses
during a wedding day toast.
Eyes shut tight make the black of mourning.

The noises dribbling from our mouths sound akin
to a murderer tromping through the forest mud.
Shovel dragging hard. ...Plop...Plop...Plop...

Our hands run over each other's bodies
open-palmed like a child examining the globe.
I want to feel you from pole to pole.

I pull back and run my fingers through your hair.
Your color is rushed with red and you wipe saliva from your lips.
Your smile is without flaws, and you taste like ambrosia.

I love being literate.