I can taste eve on my tongue;
so forbidden and bitten,
toothache from sudden remembrance,
a sweet apple cider that peels the gums from its placement under the roof of the talker.
I can feel virgo in my hands;
so lingered and forgotten,
brimmed under treehouses and
his pink nails, painted from
the cherry vines dripping substance,
chanel decorated around his neck.
I can feel moonlight in my scalp;
when it digged under the skin,
burned the brains memories and
replaced the files with feelings.
is this love I feel?
when his tongue comes
to my lemon core,
squeezed and sour
from his vulgar expressions,
that he says he wants more of what I have (nothing) to give.
you linger for a while,
not under stars or the moon,
but under empty houses and
jewelry stashes,
gold hoops ringed around
the blackest neck,
making the boys gawk and say you are royalty although casualty is what the world says you are.
I am a second time virgin,
my first being when buttermilk
fell from my insides,
when I touched there in
curious ways.
memorable to some,
but just a saturated tingle
of orgasm and confusion to I.
is life pink matter?
when I bite into my lollipop
that scrapes my twister,
does it feel foreign or forced?
cheese and wine are for gods,
but I say that we eat it like
we belong in drowning skies.
