cracking open pistachios

 

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