I May Never Come

I am covered in a burn-victim’s skin. Dead
casing, blemished tissue on fire, written in bold
letters by an inkling of possible, subdued touch upon
my sacral space. I am mentally dying to be tangibly
broken. This vagina yearns to be a high loft; a sexual
skyscraper, a place to hang won battles and elated moans
birthed by esthetic erections cradling inconspicuous
frustrations.

I shut off before secretion filled euphoria clothes dense
fingers in feminine moisture, naked sorrows I’ve yet to
sense. I’d pay in holy matrimony and motherhood; a sonnet
to be peeled and publicized in muscular weaponry. I wake in
dream; as pulses overheat my labia, rushing sexual twitches
down to my polka-dot sock covered feet during the movements
of my virgin mind’s rapid eye. Will I ever come around to fucking?
Scratch that, making love? A pure Middle Eastern lady must never
exercise filthy terminologies is what mother hardened this damsel,
arrested by wary permeation, to consider.

Reflecting a negative twosome, or so it’s been uttered; a tease
who never allowed licking as qualms of intimacy left men under
covers welcoming a blue-ball coma, and a cut-throat bitch holding
the right to refuse service in swallowing male fierceness.

Hunger strikes to grip this positive request; a sexual landscape
painted on a canvas by lubricated rhythm, flawless in interpretation.
Call me foolish, but I doubt ever coming close.