conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, godhead, my heroes wear hijabs, night glow glory hole, poem, Poetry, puberty sucks, sonnet, wet as a swamp
With blood, cramps and acne came the hijab,
the veil. “Feel blessed that you have a gorgeous
godhead dwelling in your bones.” With a stab
of my tongue I wriggled in. Lewdness
isn’t metaphor but pure parasite.
Like their Holy Laws, I’m an acquired
taste. “Don’t go,” you said on our 7th night,
since you now desire what I once desired:
a new language found in our gasps and purrs.
Your own eldritch ne’er-do-well to rouse “goo”
in your cum-caked skivvies as your mirthless
parents sleep. A companion with fingers,
making circles in the moonlight. In you.
This, too, is sacred; like lust, like solace.