Musings of a Slut

I’ve been too obsessed on posting poetry and photography simultaneously, instead of posting poems that I’m proud of having written. So I’m going to stop being so uptight about my format from now on.

Enjoy the poem!

It’s no one’s fault
But sometimes I am feathering along the hips of a lover
Whose love will dissolve in spit by morning.
Sometimes I crave touch that must be paid for first
In the form of climaxes.

I know-
There are better ways to gain affection
There are healthier ways to be loved
Like alcoholism, because you never drink alone
Like drugs, because your doctor will always prescribe xanax
Like insomnia, because there is always someone in Texas who’s awake enough to hold a conversation with you.

But these hands still find their way to Tinder
And it boils down to tongues and genitals slipping and sliding
Like shame, it all dissolves into rising steam
And into drainpipes as the shower head whines under the weight of our temporary fix
Until it becomes too much to bear

I know-
They all must love me
Overwhelmed by warmth and comfort
But their hands don’t reach me
Well intentions can’t embrace me,
Thoughts and prayers only spill like ejaculation

But maybe you can.
Your hands are gliding over my stomach and
Your love doesn’t just melt down the sewage by morning
And your gaze and your words and your embrace
Needs no payment.

I know-
They love me
They cheer me on when I delete Tinder
Drinking Somersby under light polluted skies,
Snatching the xanax from my drawers
Opening doors when they’re too heavy,
Closing windows so that the rain doesn’t lash in.

It is no one’s obligation
There are ways to be loved
When my hands feel deprived of human contact
Your arms circle the small of my back,
And for a moment, I am whole.

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