Someone asked me once if my yoni is always shaved

and the words felt like the scrape of a hand running the wrong way on my soft and firm soul.

To be anything real scared the heart of someone who couldn’t see real life. Could only see the filtered screen of the palm trees.

Carbonated copies of what to believe.

They used to say that my temple smells like cigarettes

after a night of hiding in alleys, and long sneaky walks.

I touch his feet with and hear from a scowl that feet are disgusting.

Words.

I used to brush them away like a quick itch. But they linger.

I’d swallow the plastic innuendos with the sips of unwanted drinks and unwanted pleasantries

Fuck that.

……….

He asks if he can kiss me

In a cold yellow tent in the Mexican high desert mountain air

He asks this after we have giggled two hours away under the silk of synthetic down sleeping bags

Asks this after he sees the red on my thigh, the fresh morning moon. Kisses me with all of him anyway.

Licks my armpits and I get warm.