"bellybutton" poems
heavy traffic
so we stash ourselves in the publix parking lot
and watch the flashes of the departing thunderstorm
she lays out on the buicks hood in a bikini top
a bead of sweat kisses her bellybutton
her thick dreadlocks spread like ropes
i pick one up and stick it in her ear
shes not happy with that
afternoon is all sunshine and watered down sodas
isles of plastic goodies and elevator musics
the old woman pushing her empty cart while dragging a bag
she goes to get her nails done
i push pebbles into parking lot puddles
and watch the sky drift in the reflection
she is half my age
she sticks her tongue in my ear
i dont mind
there are palm trees and lizzards everywhere
and pebbles in puddles
im a pebble and shes my puddle
shes all wet
im hard
we laugh in the forever summer sunshine
we dance in the parking lot puddles
of the fiveashes publix lot
and daydream the stars above
this is no ordinary love
this is passion's fire in the hearts eyes
shes my jezebel
im her poet
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
am I you
what am I without you
its not your fault
don’t cry for me
don’t confuse me
I love you
don’t leave me
don’t have *** like it's
nothing
don’t look at her naked body
with the same eyes that you
looked upon mine
don’t let me breathe a life saving breath
while you’re
in
her
let me wallow in saturated agony
let me be in pain
let me feel the extent of my own emotions
and eventually
for a bee that carries three times its weight isn’t meant to last
let me go into that valley of death
that idyll
that probable hell
where I may but suffer the more,
take me there.
give me a smallest crumb more
let me lick your fingers
I must see if I could still summon that sweet syrup love
that burns as it exits
my bellybutton
let it then lapse away
so I may forget
and when he finds his way
back to my dirt trail I'll never stop walking
I will pick him up and nourish his soul with my own
so his stomach fills
and he is more whole
and I am more hole
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
men write poems about ******* women
and vaginas and ****
and glorious juices and getting drunk after
and I can’t
because I have a ******
and ****
and I get uncomfortable if they want to drink after.
and if I wanna write about how I really like it
when he climbs on top of me
and puts his **** into my warm hot love-cave,
it’s just ****** poetry.
by a woman
and it doesn’t mean anything
but if I was a ****
a *****
and I said “no”
and wrote a poem about ****
it would make women love me as a feminist
but I’m not a feminist
I just like it when he ***** me
and his chest hair falls out
and covers my ******* and goes into my bellybutton
I don’t mind having to
lint roll
the sheets
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -
Gorgeous.
I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Red,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,
To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Torture.
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.
I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,
On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,
There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Gorgeous.
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Gorgeous.
Down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Gorgeous.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
I like to play with your belly button
'Cause it makes me giggle and laugh
I'll let you play with my bellybutton
I bet it makes you giggle and laugh
Exactly as it does with me
It makes me laugh hysterically
I know it might seem rather silly
But I love to do it willy-nilly.
Sometimes I like to blow on your belly
And make that almost obscene sound
It's worth it to hear you laugh, really
Then both of us roll around on the ground.
We laugh and play like a couple of kids
And make no excuses for silly things we did.
Others make love your way and we ours.
We tickle and blubber on each other
And have our kind of fun for hours.
I really like the way you wrinkle your nose
It makes me laugh hard and not for nothing
It tickles me a lot that you wiggle your toes
When you let me play with your belly button.
I'm very happy to be able to testify
Some things in life are meant just for fun.
Belly button tomfoolery, I promise
Is one of the very best kinds of fun.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
I once met a man who read my bellybutton.
He told me that the two horizontal lines
meant I have internal and external insecurities.
I scoffed at the idea that those things
could disappear from mortal souls.
He then pointed to the bottom vertical line,
the most noticeable,
and told me
that meant
my biggest insecurity was my reproductive organs.
I smiled small.
Should I tell him about the dead baby
or instead of the riley women who have male dependency.
I chose the latter,
for Im not sure if the kid is still dead.
I could hear her screams in late night alleys for two years after.
She haunts my horror dreams,
singing we could have lived happily ever after.
Instead, Ill chose the story of my stepfather
who called me a *****
and cried to my mother
that I was trying to ****** him with training bras and black eye liner.
'Did he hurt you?'
'of course,
but so did my mother-
and I've learned to forgive those
who chose life over freedom.'
It's more than I've done.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
can’t get my mind off of
sexsexsex
lying eyes
fruitful decadent lips
sharp neck
shoulder
******
bellybutton
hips (round and hard like a rising cliff--
heaving and sliding)
and then
comes the places where I feel at home
where you like to burrow
make love to me
before the sun goes down again
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
Dear Gawd......I wanna be Pope..
I never ride backwards
on train or bus,
I never profane,
blaspheme or cuss,
I'm limpid,
riven of diaphanous stuff
never been given,
to a female ****
I'm penitent, contrite –
shriven of sin,
compliant, reliant,
I'm bendy n thin.
not quite castrato,
gives good vibrato
to choirboys mullato
with bellybutton fluff.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
Mother threw me away
****** me in and spit me out
The pavement still tastes like your thighs
Like bubble gum underneath the chemistry table
Where I first held hands with
Some other girl I loved
Not knowing her reaction but
We burned flowers cut with kitchen knives.
I woke up to ashes lining my breakfast
Tongue thick with Amaryllis
Thinking if God asks you my name
Say serpent,
Say hello —
A disaster of two elements
You and me
If we combined
Our neon wrists.
Does Ares care about
How I touch you, with the lights off
You tell me the walls
Already know
What I do with my wolf teeth
And your caffeinated bellybutton,
They find you in three nights.
Rebirth is not as kind
To my combusting spine, replace
Ghost sin with your birth right
Jacob’s carnage
I paid for with eyelashes,
Long glances — my dignity
Wrapped in ****** white, and impotent boy skin
Becomes a coffin.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
Depression? Sure, that's tough.
But honestly,
all I ever wanted was to be enough.
Each moment recalled.
Each late night, computer-installed,
with stunning fireworks,
and a missed train, stalled.
She was just always so
appalled.
And when I do recall,
some stupid trip to the mall
or the seventieth missed call,
I just can't think
of anything else
but how I hate
your vicious attempt to assimilate,
your inevitable success,
and that honeybee yellow dress.
How I lost all of those years
wiping away all of her livid tears.
A knife,
or just another unwashed dish.
The leftover fish
had her looking more
like a side dish.
And watching me
slowly disappear
with a conscious clear.
Even the malicious robins will find rest
as the kindest worms hope for the best.
But to be eaten up and tossed back down,
leaves any earthworm broken,
anxiously wishing to drown.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
Pull your teeth out,
threading your lips together with twine.
Reach into your bellybutton with a finger,
hook-shaped,
and remove your intestines,
like a serpent.
Run a hook into your nose,
removing your brain
as if mummifying you.
Carve a smile with a razor,
under each breast,
******* out the fat
and replacing it with silicone.
Pull your nails off,
leaving ****** beds,
krazy-gluing plastic
over the tips of the fingers.
Fingers into ****
pulling out the ******
Spoon the eyeballs out,
sew the sockets shut.
My doll, broken and battered,
now fixed in perfection.
A soft suicide relapse into plasticine porcelain -
you tremble when we ****
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
I hate and love my bellybutton at the same time.
It's half inny, half outy -
as if playiNg coy.
I'm down to my socks and knickers.
I'd describe them, bUt you don't care.
I choose a flattering filter on my webcam
and strike a pose
as the countDown begins:
Three - two -
onE.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
The city sits above your eyes,
in dark mascara strokes.
Your soft pink lips are chapped and tried
unglossed, and un-baroque.
The flowers of a garden’s growth
are painted on each iris.
The laughter and the sadness, both
are on your cheeks that i kiss.
Your body sparkles, freckles brushed
are baked in your warm skin.
A bellybutton slightly pushed
by God’s last touch, thumb pin.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
maybe you were right: i never brought
home flowers or chocolate
cleverly arranged in the
shape of a heart and
i couldn't afford a day at the spa
but i'd always sit with my bare ***
on the cold bathroom tile for hours and
feed you toasted bits of cheese on ritz crackers
while you cried in the bathtub i'd
braid your hair as you
let your fingers wrinkle until
the water cooled off too much your
******* got hard and bubbles
stuck to the cut of your shoulders
because you were there when
my mom's little car died on a backroad
under the old black tree
that scratched up the sky
you pulled your pants up
over ruby knees and asked
me to fix your bra
smoked a cigarette lying upside down
across my damp chest
facing my feet and
made me make a promise
while i traced music notes into
the soft flesh of your back with
my ***** fingernails and found
the cracks in your porcelain ankles
with my tongue
you said my love for you is
something that will never make sense
and you never know what to do
with your hands when i'm kissing you
but you moaned the chorus while
i sang verses into your bellybutton
and tied a couple fingers to the
soft web of hair behind your ears
we were like two locusts
fighting in a gossamer heap
two weeks later you were dancing
in my kitchen like a daffodil drunk
on robotussin wearing only striped
peppermint legwarmers and
authentic dreamcatcher earrings
so i bought a theremin from
your favorite pawn shop
and taught you how to tickle it
and as the wind picked up
whipped your hair into a
crucial comet's tail and rustled
the caterpillar from the windowpane
back to it's home in the wormy grass
i could hear the warm whistle
it made when you played with it
alone in the bedroom
i am crying now while
driving down highway one
recalling how your nose crinkled
when you smoked crushed roaches
or the way your hair tasted in the morning
and how you used to spit a
little bit when you laughed
and i can still hear that haunted echo
even as the saltwater swells
and splashes past the rocks
that sun machine is just
a distant memory now
but it left burn marks on my skin
and the floor where we tumbled
and fought the first time
i called you beautiful
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
FLASH
“Blame it on my ADD baby...”
My fingers graze from the brim of your jeans and drag from the crevice
between your upper thigh and stomach to your batman bellybutton ring and pull
your skin between your cleavage to the base of your neck while my teeth
drag along your bare chest, laid out before me.
FLASH
“Learn to take your **** with a big-ass smile...”
I’m shooing the dogs out so you can get ready for work and I can stand back
like I always to do take in every inch of you while I can. The smoothness of your
flawless skin, your beautiful back that seems to greet me more often now, that
adorable smile, and most of all the eyes that made the world stop. Well, mine hasn’t
started back since.
FLASH
“I’m half the man that you think that I have been...”
Driving. More. You’re telling me a story about this band that you like and
I listen like a little child because your stories, no matter the subject, always capture
my full attention.
FLASH
**** I need to get some sleep before I never sleep again, because I’m thinking
of everything I love about you.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
i'll never give up longing.
i'll let my hair grow long like a prince
and tangle with the leaves in autumn.
let the pinecones fall around me like dead money.
i'll let fall become winter.
let myself become a crusty savage in a cave.
i'll let my teeth clatter against my tongue.
i'll let winter pass unburdened.
let the nights grow long and deepen.
i'll let the slow inertia of sleep come heavy.
then i'll let spring.
i'll let the tangerines ripen on the bough.
i'll let the afternoons stretch long and hazy in front of my feet.
let the fleeting birds find me on the lawn.
i'll let pollen collect in my bellybutton.
let the dragonfly light on my finger.
i'll let my jaw unclench.
let myself be shattered into fragments.
i'll let myself forget the bad stories.
let the rain wash away another year.
i'll let into my raincoat.
let my throat open and sing.
i'll let the breeze take my voice away in the field.
let myself become astonished.
i'll let the smell of the summer mist
enter my nose and stain my cheeks.
let the ocean impress me.
i'll let the sand bring me under.
i'll let myself cry on a mountaintop.
i'll let the sun guide me up a tree.
i'll let rage and calm and joy come together between us.
i'll let my body writhe.
i'll let kindness unbutton the fence i built there.
i'll let this impossible planet get lost.
i'll let america forget my name and orphan me.
let the elastic mirage just lazily dissolve.
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 9:00 PM UTC
Martha was shown
into a parlour
inside the front door
of the mother house
by a plump nun
in black and white
who looked like a penguin
out for a stroll
wait in there
she said
someone
will fetch you
in time
so Martha looked around
the room at the plain
white walls
the heavy curtains
at the windows
the huge crucifix
on the wall opposite
whose plaster Christ
seemed battered
an aged
the plaster had lines
and cracks
on the legs
and arms
and the hands
were contorted
like a crab
on its back
with rusty nails
holding them in place
she moved nearer
and reached up a hand
so that her fingers
could touch the feet
of Christ and run
them over the toes
and feel the nail
going through the feet
she rubbed her fingers there
she used to rub the crucifix
in her grandmother's house
the big one over
the double bed
and if she stood
on the bed
she could reach right up
to touch the face
and beard
and see if she could
hear Him breathe
or if she reached
really high
she could feel His nose
which on her grandmother's
Christ the nose seemed broken
and her grandmother said
that was where
her grandfather
had thrown a shoe in temper
and crack the plaster nose
will he go to Hell?
she recalled asking
her grandmother
O no
her grandmother said
not just for that
and she was pleased
because she liked her grandfather
and his simple ways
and hard toffees
she felt each toe in turn
moving a finger
over the plaster
and remembered
her school friend Mary
who had pressed
chewing gum
into the bellybutton
of the plaster Christ
in the cloister
of the convent school
back in the 1960s
and when Sister Bede
saw it she had to gently
chiselled it out
with a screwdriver
threatening severe punishment
to the girl responsible
but no one told
and even when she left years
after the bellybutton
of the Christ still had
the scar where Sister Bede
had chiselled too hard
there was a cough behind her
and Martha turned
and there was a nun
standing by the door
her eyes dark like berries
and her thin mouth
slowly opened
and she said
are you the girl
who wants to be a nun?
Martha nodded her head
and the nun told her
to follow her and she
went down a dim lit
passageway
the nun in front
pacing slow
each footstep measured
her hands tucked
out of sight
with only the sound
of her heels going
clip clop clip clop
on the flagstones
and the black habit
swaying very gracefully
as she walked
no more words
no questions
no answers
because no one talked.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
He does not think he is beautiful
He does not speak when my hands travel the mapwork of his body under mine.
I mark my favorite places with my lips, several times to be sure theyre real.
Lips
Eyes
Nose
Bellybutton
Arms
Hands
Lips
Eyes
Nose
Bellybutton
Arms
Hands
Lips
Eyes
Nose
Bellybutton
Arms
Hands
Again and again I want to show him he is loved
But he does not believe me
He does not believe me because
They are telling him no
Dont look in the mirror yet
But this morning you look beautiful
But you look so sad
So i try to kiss my favorite parts of you
But youre not here
Lips
Eyes
Nose
Bellybutton
Arms
Hands
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing but air.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
I.
black & blue
as the scissor handles
on a hospital desk
outside the x-ray room
where a scared boy
waits for his best friend
to emerge safely
six sickly pink
as the sutures
outlining her kneecap
and the pale
as anesthesia
filling up her irises
II.
black & blue
as the waterfall
of markings
cascading down
sheer breastbone
to pool in my bellybutton
brown
as the split blue moon
on ice, and darker as
the curls still unable
to rival the vehemence
of your stare
III.
black & blue
as the smeared ink
of broken contracts
bound to my skin
in sheets
achromatic
as the morning after
and the murmured reminder
to forget all about it
seeping from your pores,
as tainted honey
from bees beaten
blue & black
into blindness
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
whenever i lay on my back
i look at my tummy,
my ribs slightly pop out
and the center of my stomach caves in a little
you can see
this
little tiny
heart beat
just right above the bellybutton
and it just bumps up and down up and down
and this seems to make me happy
so i
press down on that little beating belly
and
i feel
weird stuff inside
a thump, a beat, a pulse
and
it feels so good
against my cold fingertips
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
communication is always a plus.
late at night when i finally tell you
that i don't know you.
and i want to.
and you respond in the perfect way;
you just talk to me
about the **** that matters, for once
not about our plans for the day or the monotonous "i miss you, do youmissme?"
but about the inside of your soul
you take it out of your bellybutton
turn it inside out
and show me,
everything
i needed this
to make sense of myself.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 10:18 AM UTC
Talk to me about flowers and fires.
The orchids
of our collected youths
are bleeding into rose water
and being smashed into books.
For a little look
like a picture stretched under a slide
hiding, elfin to run back away from us.
In the hearth of us we wonder
what the charcoal will draw next.
Sticks on the banks of the styx
In it’s flicking midst
I can almost see
the little beat-less heart
in the center of the cherry.
It’s like it’s still held still in pursed lips.
In a falling little flame
accidently spilling it.
Out in Saturday mornings.
Out of school
so sliding in our nose rings.
Skiving by lying
with fist rubbed eyeballs.
The swell,
Then the classic sweetness
of the re-sleep.
Marker pen graffiti.
Feeling like elitists
because we don’t like elitists.
Defeatist is in right now, love's yet a fable.
(Planets are ***** on physics tables,
and writings on my hands,
but **** it man,
I won’t remember them, anyway.
Blurry nameless kisses
tasting like French lager,
or is that me?
Bellybutton shots.
Love at a coin toss
or against a brick wall was at it's best.
But there’s room for two
in this tent full of burn-holes.
Iron maiden.
never paid but
in microphone coldness
on the lips.
Lifted on the fix.
Giving the week in a night
and taking the night for a week,
with velocity.
Headbanger’s neck on
the pen-bottle **** being used,
being used up.
Swimming against the river.
Golden Virginia,
Sobranies in the bus shelter.
And as the day's screen goes over
we still kept the bonfire
running in the rain.
That's what talks to me.
I'm laying back,
but moving forwards,
involuntarily.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
The aura around her
is hotter than sunspots,
she permeates pure-woman,
allows me private indiscretions.
I can twist her,
bend her in half,
partake in her heavenly assets.
She lets me take her to different universes,
I kiss her everywhere,
my tongue trickles
from her bellybutton south
where my mouth
lips her magic,
that’s a place I like to be.
There’s only one thing
I like better than this,
& it ain’t a cold Heineken.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
she was a bird, kind of. The kind that was easy to free, you know those ones you hear outside your window on a late spring afternoon, when the sky isn’t quite yet pink but you know it will be soon, and it’s kind of a sad time.
She’s that kind of bird – the little plain brown ones that wait on the trees and suddenly you look out and it’s staring at you, giving you this sort of look that goes, “I know what you are doing and I can see you, deep inside you.” It’s sort of chilling,
but it gives you a warm feeling too, until the tips of your toenails, and you feel very stuffy.
She was that kind of bird. She would often just sit there next to you while you were drawing something, with her hand under her chin, legs crossed, leaning forward. And you would lose all focus of what you were drawing and realize that whatever it was, she would be twenty times more interesting to draw.
So you would casually flick your notebook to a new page and contemplate a few sketch marks, outlining her jaw – and what a jaw. And you would just stare at that jaw and the curve you drew on your paper, and they would look nothing alike. But you hate erasing, but you hate what’s on the paper, and you just can’t take it and you get all frustrated and all the while she’s just sitting there with her hand under her chin, legs crossed, leaning forward, and you mean to jump a little and stand up and stare at her directly in the face,
but you realize that wouldn’t be so nice. And you realize you’re acting slightly stupid, so you keep your poise and take off your shoes and socks, and it’s so nice by the fountain so you dip your toes in a little bit.
Then she turns her head a little too quickly toward you when she notices your toes in the water, and you turn toward her, surprised. She searches your face, your eyelashes, your hands, sighs and leans backward and lies down on the cement, her shirt stretching up a centimeter or two above the waistband of her pants, exposing a white thin cookie piece of her belly.
And then you want to draw her belly, except you can’t see her bellybutton which is the main part, and you get more frustrated, and all the while she’s just lying there staring up at the sky, with her legs uncrossed and her arms splayed out to either side of her, and all the while her blue and brown jacket is – oh no, she’s taking it off, oh no, and now you want to draw her arms except you can’t because you’ve pretty much just proven to yourself within the last few minutes that you can’t draw her at all. It’s so impossible, so you just don’t even open your mouth, and the water is making the bottoms of your toes wrinkly and it’s actually a little cold, so you look at her hair.
So you look at her hair rolled out clumsily on the cement and it’s beautiful, and it’s so unfair what she is, and you don’t even know what to do with yourself.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 5:26 PM UTC
Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me my hair is as flawless as a
Newborn’s cheeks, soft as air,
That the color is a gifted blend
Of delightful giggles
Tell me my nose is a vision of loveliness,
Tell me when you look into my eyes, you
Are parasailing over elated bodies of water,
Say that the sound of my voice carries
You from your mind’s darkest places
Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me you love the crescent shape of
My lips, that you grow a second heart
When they call out your name,
Tell me how my savory neck locks
Perfectly into your milky grasp,
How you would run your hospitable
Fingers up and down like a gentle whisper
Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me your cupped palms are crowns for
My adored ******* say they fill
Your throat with heart shaped glass
And make your knees heavy with liquid love,
Tell me that my hands are a never ending
Fireplace, that my fingers are sweet
Marshmallows you dream of tasting
Tell me I’m pretty
Tell me that my stomach, as flat
As can be, drenches your lips with
Melodious thoughts, including my
Bellybutton, your sacred chocolate strawberry,
Tell me the bones in my hips doesn’t turn
You off, but ignites an explosion of confetti
Inside, when grazed by your sensual mouth
Tell me I’m pretty
That my thighs are illustrious thrones
For my bottom, which is nothing short
Of perfectly sculpted royalty,
Tell me when you look at them, you
See a million tiny balloons of iridescent colors,
Soaring towards a celestial vault of clouds, and
That not a chair in this universe deserves me
Tell me I’m pretty
That you can see my soul in
My calves and the luminosity with
Every stride I take,
Tell me my feet aren’t just holding
Me up, but you as well
Say you want to take each toe,
And sing them each a different
Song, as you trace the lines on their
Bottoms, like they’re maps
To my hidden secretes
I am bound by my own eagerness,
Chained with hopeless thoughts,
That one day, however long it takes
In this infinite universe, maybe,
You will finally tell me I’m pretty.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC