i don’t blame the men that came before;
kissing me like a humming engine,
poised to fold themselves into shapes
matching my own creases.
why recoil at the idea of origami?
when they craved only reciprocation
instead, dispel gifts crafted of turquoise and fuschia; velvet and suede;
(isn’t this the criterion of affection, an edict of adoration?)

no. i refuse for love to be portrayed
as less than sinking yourself into another person’s skin,
keys sliding into locks; lilac, leather, blushes, false glances;
climbing out of the shower—bare, vulnerable,
bestowed with sleepy satisfaction as I embed my heels into the floor…
sighs of relief. (I’m blessed to love women.)

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