I read your body like a language
one I spoke so fluently
it could have been my native one.
Your eyes held codes I longed to decipher
and your mouth patterns
I wanted to trace.
I saw your skin like it was a map drawn just for me
every mole an indication
of where my lips were to travel next.
But you were still growing and soon you were out of my reach,
a new map replaced the old
and a new lover was found to match.

My friends always tell me I say no too often
to the boys who want me only for my body.
They say I don't know how to have fun.
But I remember all the boys before them
who called me beautiful when they grabbed my ****
but got furious and labelled me a ***** when I
took their hands off and rejected their advances.
I recall the boys who stared shamelessly at my *******
but called me a **** and all the adults
who told me it was my own fault for being promiscuous.
I think back
On all the times boys asked me
whether or not I was a ******,
as if they had the right to know.
On the numerous occasions a guy I didn't know
asked me to **** his ****,
as if that is the only thing I'm good for.
On every time boys called me
    
          a *****
                       a ****
                                 a *****
                                               or a ***** ******.

And when I do so I'm absolutely sure I want no part
of the fun my friends keep going on about.