Don’t ask me about her lips. How they ruby and burn. Stretch full over white teeth, taut like a drum. I want her to make music of me.
Don’t ask me about her hands. The way they are scarred with stories. How they slide down her legs as I stare. Mouth cotton; eyes hungry.
Don’t ask me about my hunger. The way my stomach drops tight when she looks at me. The way my palms itch for her bones. Don’t ask me about my fear. The way she comes to me.
How I open my mouth to say “Yes” and it comes out “I’m sorry.”