I am covered in a burn-victim’s skin. Dead
casing, blemished tissue on fire, written in bold
letters by repressed molestation. I am mentally
dying to physically let anyone in. My vagina yearns to
be your walk-in closet; a sexual skyscraper, a place to hang
your won battles, your elated moans, your conspicuous yet
tastefully frustrated erection.
I shut off before secretion filled euphoria
clothes your fingers in feminine
moisture, naked sorrows I’ve yet to feel. I’d pay in holy
matrimony and motherhood; a sonnet to be peeled
and publicized in your muscular weaponry.
I wake in dream; as the pulsating of my Labia overheats,
thoughts of you surge sexual twitches
down to my polka-dot sock covered feet
during the movements of my virgin mind’s rapid
eye. Will I ever come round to you and me, fucking? Scratch
that, making love? A pure lady must never
curse, is what mother conditioned this philosophical damsel
to have confidence in.
I’ve been called a couple of things; a whore by those who
never had the chance to lick my fruit, a tease by those who my
qualms of intimacy left under the covers, writhing in pain with
blue-balls, and a bitch by those whose cum
my throat demanded never being fiercely glazed by.
One thing I have yet to be called; a lover of sexual
nature, whose rhythm is flawless in interpretation.
Ready or not, I doubt ever coming close.
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