is this only where I shine? is this only where my voice thrives?
being in such a place, a damp and humid place that I believe is vignetted in rosey pink and chewed up bubblegum with spits of purple hues slobbered and drooled everywhere, dripping down the ceiling with a few seldom splashes —

is this scene, is this all I can sing? can I only describe stench, hot breaths, milky penny-like juices, and slits and poles that play and buck? can I only dream of seduction? is my head only full of love-marbles? I shake my head and you hear them, bounce, jiggle, clink and *****, full of color and perfect circularity: a tautology between my thighs and why do I thrive as I call myself your bim b0? as I call myself your cocoa hued bim b0? why have I thrived as a mammy and as a jezebel when I should not? why must my strengths harm other women around me? I do not mean to set back time, no, but pieces and acres of my heart remained colonized, and I can’t resist the temptation of my sweet man holding me back into the bed, with his vein’d hand between fat burnt globes on my chest, as he wiggles his free hand inside my crevice, heavenly burning crevice — I can’t resist a good man, a man’s man, a renaissance man, as I allow him to carve me into him — why, oh why, is this the song I sing?