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3-12
like the shyest evening primrose desire has a way of showing you what it wants only after it has wound its roots around your legs. in the beginning: a dual-edged frame, turpitude and fervor on one side, cashmere-soft on the other, impossible to hang (which was convenient because the frame held only sidelong glances, cloistered sighs, promises to the dead and the dreaming) today: scanning the thrift store bag that hid our sex toys during your mother's visit, looking for any errant closet tenants I catch glimpses of my frame, still. it was entertaining to encase an unsuspecting victim, the chase of its edge, the sport of their escape. you strode into the frame willingly unscrewed its bolts, wound the razor wire hanger around your hand and opened your curled fingers inside of me giving me a taste of my own longing. |
