sweat collects in the basin of my fingertips.
open for business, covered in you.
sketched a mirage of tears & orgasmic moans
into my shoulder blades; the skin beneath my
left breast bears a bruise the shape of your tongue.
shaking in our skin, we haven’t felt this
way since we put down the razor blades.
form-fitted, cowering into each other like
the lion who lost his courage.
we are fucking (done)
our bodies, 102 degrees of
& things mother would never approve.
neither of us smile – we’re not sure we like this.
you work your way inside me more times than
i’ve had birthday parties; it smells like grandpa’s
cognac. i inhale the scent of (y)our s(k)in & i see
my old man’s old man building the brooklyn bridge.
if my back breaks again, i won’t know
which brand of soul-glue to use. the 7th
stick of incense burns out and the stale
scent of alcohol turns into God.
you thrust yourself into me, force my morals
out of my lips and onto your dick.
sad part is, i agreed to this.
my crucifix grazes over the inside of
your thighs; the clasp on the gold chain
around my neck will break tonight.
Meghedi (not pictured) is 15 years old. she likes people with pretty eyes and walking in the rain. she’s both happy and sad at the same time; she’s trying to figure out how that could be.