i am not
a woman
nor am i a
man but
i will pretend my skin
is soft and
sweet and
supple
pliant beneath your fingertips
that these breasts
are organs for your pleasure
and that my insides
are yours for the taking
drawing has never been
my forte
but i spill turpentine
over a page
break open the colour
and call it art
a masterpiece that you
will hang up beside
our four poster bed
draped in chafing cotton
and wool
unspooling
like my ribs like
a pall of yarn in a
kittens paw
kneading at your stomach
the shell cracks beneath your teeth
stained green
pistachios
swallowing down shards
and soft kernel
ice cream churning
i scoop it from
your abdomen sinking
hands into flesh
your insides are mine
for the taking and we
feast
on one another
a banquet that will cease
when our blood runs dry