subject of desire

what is desire if denial of desire
becomes in of itself an obsession?
do not tell him you want to come
so I am told
for you
I cannot be acknowledged to exist
as a desiring subject
where virginal vaginas are objects of worship
I defy the lie that would imprison my pussy my soul to madness
I revel in the deviance of woman pleasuring her/myself

when I say I desire to touch you
do you feel my fingers only on your cock
or do you notice sheer light crossing between us
as I reach for your hand?
I smell the rich amber and cedar of your scent
as I roll your sweet flesh
around my tongue
catching hair like threads on my lips

I am told
do not tell him you come hard and often
that you are insatiable and uncontrollable even as he
fucks every hole
grinds me into liquid
and yet I push you further inside me
and you think you may both drown
not enough time to think or project
not enough time to believe anything else but pleasure
not enough guilt to walk away
not enough mercy to know when clear becomes red
not enough control to hear the safe word

he sees though the torn curtain hanging in the doorway
legs spread eyes closed
masturbation will make you blind to all considerations
but that which makes the cunt flood and spill
woman hands desire both the self and him
becoming voyeur to one’s own exhibitionism
the whoring of writing
the whoring of writers
being nowhere all this time
except buried in my own womb
drinking my own menstrual blood
licking up my own juice
tying to hold on to my last big orgasm
my own pleasure being selfish
you/I are/am so angry at/about my/your
dependency on a moment
we both struggle to see
before the breaking of morning
when you/I know in these few seconds left
love is possible.

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