(no subject)
And then he clutches my back-his fingers spread out like winter-stricken tree branches. Touch reawakens my spinal cord. I am brought back into the world through his tongue. Above me like a blind plough horse, the grotesque reemergence. He makes me good again with each kiss. His sweat is like holy water. I see myself becoming worthy through his eyes. He shows me there is still truth, hope, a path out of these woods. No condoms and dirty words. This softness. Our hands drifting like lily pads over each other. We move as through a dream. My sad eyes through the dark. His hardness pressed against my back, kissing me softly as though tentative in the joy of this permission. He strokes me like something small and fragile, his hands on my side, the places where I fold. He smooths my feet like a Hindi bride. He anoints me with henna. "You have a girlfriend." "I know. I don't like my girlfriend." That means nothing. Beside me on a step, two scared children at the edge of the primordial dark. He buys me a purple frog. He kisses my forehead. What am I but the dark seductress? The girl with the witchy eyes crouched in the corner of the woods?