realism.

IX. LATE JUNE

LATE JUNE

i don't want to be your girl
your grandmother's porcelin
for i breathe the same air
you breathe

drink from the same sink
shaking hands
with your obscenities
your fingers feel like late june

and it didn't
matter
that we'd never find our place
but laced inbetween eachothers thoughts

my baby is softly pink
and i listen
while she dreams
tell herbplease
let me make you feel something

carry your mind on the small
of my back
and
too often
we do not let be shown
what knots behind our ribs
tangled

and i'm scratching
freckles underneath my fingernails
show me
how to make you feel something
when my fingers trace you
they feel more than skin
more than bone
you,

you touching my knees
under becoming jeans
touch is your rhetoric
you gave grief the best connotation.

you can push on my
neck
eyelids
thighs
let your honey drip down my lap
but please
let me make you feel something
underneath freckled skin
idled away in your late june bones

please
why can't i feel something?