On the Outskirts of Bed Sheets

Fall is falling and thusly, so I am. Purple and pink wildflowers come on late, but not too late for the land of Forgiveness.

A light rain hisses at the dawn and only barely rises above the purr and murmur of crickets. One is denied attention to stars as of late, Venus or otherwise.

The world of men has both obscured me with disregard and made sure that I was educated on how to become the architect of my own pain for wanting too much. These curtains of hair I have hidden behind; this eulogy I have written for Dad in the shower.

Moonlight slices porcelain ankles stacked and cooling on the outskirts of sheets. I lack nothing because midnight tells the truth.

A broken waltz restored. The Hands of God slip onto the small of my back and ask for a dance.

Prisms and other ways to kiss a neck.

With one, I never have to ask for what I want. With another, I am a conditioned hollow of low-maintenance, giving away mountains and continents in exchange for status quo.

How we are trained for happy servitude. How we are trained to not expect servitude in return.

Keep your appetite in check, young lady, and if you are lucky, you will get to nibble on the alms left at the front gate.

What happens when the unapologetically hungry monster-witch-heroine is freed from what has been denied her for so long? She finds enough strength to swallow a man.

Am I the goddess or the offering – the witch or the divine child of God? All I know is that when my hands ruck the sheets in sheer pleasure, my mouth is bound as to not be named a siren.