I Can Never Finish What I Sta

I want you, bad.
To measure your flesh with my hands, smear portraits
all over messy bedroom floors
and kitchen counters
by the sink and dirty dishes we said we’d get to later
because we’re young.
Or maybe in the park where the mud, thick underbrush,
and rain paints our bodies to cleanse the canvas
until we’re innocent and impressionable again.

(And I hear doing it outside is totally what’s in now)

Your body rolls off my tongue
like consonants; like milk, like honey.
Sometimes I relish being wired like a guy,
forgetting you bite your nails
so I only see fresh snow to play and step on.
I hate your breast.
Small corners wake the wolf in me – like the back of necks
where hair curls and bra straps. Giggles, lipstick,
high heels - smoke and mirrors. I hate beauty marks.

I want you bad.
Cuts, bruises, skinned knees and
addictions. Break my buttons,
pick a fight, dig nails into my neck
because ordinary is boring and you need your fix:
now that’s a beauty mark. I just like the way scars feel
against my fingertips. I just love when your body tells a story
better than your lips can.