With doubt and self hate as continually in bloom in my skin I need
the pressure of your hands to keep it at bay
where words or daylight promises fade out into the loneliness of night
I might forget the drive of your desire,
if you left me here without reminders. when in the highest vaults of night
I feel your hips push toward mine, feel
the breath of you like grace on my skin, you are the dissolution of my
doubts and all my fears. Touch me now
like you could heal me, drag me out of the swamp I have dredged with
brackish self-loathing, pry me sticky
with contempt up into your arms: where I am whole, or seen, or loud, and
where I never doubt the truth of your hands and mouth.