can hands be hungrier
than mouths?
mais regarde,
il me dit qu’il n’y peut rien.
eyes two sparkling green things
dimpled smile, soft lips,
soft neck, soft breath
soft even when he pushes
too hard or shoves
too deep,
soft, like little red-brown circles
in pretty sets of four,

foaming fuming frothing mouth,
lilac stain on a white sheet,
layers deep down, soft
like a puppy snarling,
teeth bared, only playing.
soft, just one little tender girl
with one little tender spot,
soft like her hair and his lips and her neck,
soft like the shadow he trails
in hallways
behind shower curtains,
over bedframes,
in mirrors
when it’s only just me looking
when it’s only just me.

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