fruit left uneaten
pulpy slices juice-curled hair
burden of wanting
The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenched
under your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenched
little patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. You
peel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrew
twist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floor
of your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.
Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.
Full of the mystery of taste.
Reckless with my mouth.
fresh. My mouth
on your skin. A light kiss
with the touch
of the tongue.
fruit; with a grip,
howling, and hair
Plena do gosto da mistério.
Afoita com minha boca.
Latejando de fruta
fresca. Minha boca
na teu pele. Um leve beijo
com o toque
fruto; com um aperto,
um urro, e puxão
de cabelo. Fruto