Categories > Original > Poetry
His budding spurts of thick hair and erections.
Sex feels like quicksand.
I stare into an abyss
of pixelated screen at three am.
He wakes up. I panic.
The musk of his testosterone
chokes me,
and in my drunken stupor of
asphyxiation:
the weight of his cologne lifts. I cry.
Chest to chest.
Breast to breast.
Pink Triangle by Weezer.
Soft chapstick-stained lips, the curvature of female bodies, her cheap dollar-store
deodorant.
Boy. Man. I dream in black and white,
the grayscale of sexuality towering over me.
He asks me to stay.
I paint my nails pastel pink.
Lesbian.
Sex feels like quicksand.
I stare into an abyss
of pixelated screen at three am.
He wakes up. I panic.
The musk of his testosterone
chokes me,
and in my drunken stupor of
asphyxiation:
the weight of his cologne lifts. I cry.
Chest to chest.
Breast to breast.
Pink Triangle by Weezer.
Soft chapstick-stained lips, the curvature of female bodies, her cheap dollar-store
deodorant.
Boy. Man. I dream in black and white,
the grayscale of sexuality towering over me.
He asks me to stay.
I paint my nails pastel pink.
Lesbian.
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