You never asked me if I've ever had ***—
to my relief.
The air would’ve died long before I came up with:
"No, I haven’t”

but it's not like I haven't thought of your fingers
running down my thighs —first like eyelashes
then with force only second to that of my front teeth on my lower lip or
your palms heavy on my arched back as you
cleanse the isle of my ******* with your tongue.
I’d sit on your lap in rebellion thinking
no one should feel as vulnerable as this
but then your touch’ll come like a note in an ear worm —expected
and ridden with guilt— and the next thing

I know I am beyond redemption.

No, I haven't had ***
but purity is more than just unchartered burrows
or skin behind layers—
more than the image of a dove against
a backdrop of perfect ivory.

It is the sound of your laughter
when I told you about a teacup tiger
plaguing my dreams.
It’s the twitching of your brow even after months of looking
eye to eye—
the crack in your apology
for accidentally touching my skin.
Purity is your voice when
you tell me it is enough for me to stay—
to just stay.