She Rides Wild, Like a Wasp

I have a therapist.

She's been with

me since birth.

Watercolors on my

soul.

She spills black, and

blue; sometimes

red.

Blood is to

bright on the white

page.

I blush for the

both of us.

When all is out for

the caged moments,

I collapse and rest.

I dream in metaphors,

and I taste the

sweetness of her

inner thigh.

Tangerines and treehouses.

I wake to find her slurping on

my soul, I seize her and she

greets me with grief or

gospel music, or

obscure memories of

vaginas long gone.

We take this wild

ride together

forever learning from

our symbiotic bond.

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