Men have always told me that I am nothing
like “her” - the woman, the women,
before me.
I love like powder
silently leaving pieces of myself to sink
into their skin
(making them softer, sweeter).
My emotions are a hum in the room,
they steal all the air
but I am hush
and small; I exist in only the smallest ways
like noticing a man’s veins
then
caressing him in circles,
tracing him
connecting them like vines. I pretend
it does something,
I pretend to cast a spell
but I never say a word – I am the ghost
of hope
for men, I am
their good luck charm
(my magic
never noticed unless it works). Never am I
like the women before me
but how
I wish I had the strength to be.