One through Seven
1. I was 8 and she was 10. She held my hand and kissed my skin. All was warm flesh, full and plump. She tasted of saltwater and unfresh breath. We hid in cupboards and as I lay in her lap she told me to close my eyes and let her in.
2. His eyes were yellow and his lips were grey. His cheeks were soft but his hands were bark. Grabbing, pushing, rubbing. My clammy hands wrapped around the beating member and I thought about telling my friends I had touched a boy and liked it. I didn't.
3. A hand slipped between the closed legs of a sleepless form aching for rest. My eyelids wrinkled with closed desire. Let this lack of sight create an absence of feeling.
4. She bites my lip so hard it breaks. "I don't like kissing", she says. I can tell.
5. In unnatural positions I think of my hunger. It was easier when drinks and hands moved faster than reason. I suspect these brief musings won't help either way.
6. He told me that he hated me. Swathed in a gilded light, with teeth bared I kissed his mouth. Â His tongue was slow and his eyes had dropped. He turned me over and hit me from behind. My skin stung and my mouth curled as he laughed at the shining '15' badge pinned to my breast.
7. Forgive me, for this one has bruised my memory. I see no contingency, no fluidity here. I see white rooms, locked doors and fluorescent light. I hear deep voices, high laughter and the faint irregularity of a jazz tape somewhere outside of this keep. At times I ran. At times I pushed. I hid in bathrooms and all was cool and draining. I taste of cigarettes and his unfresh breath. As I lay beneath him, he told me to close my eyes and let him in.
