My body is a map.
I am the cartographer.
Desire, my language.
Sometimes I get lost
In the paths your fingers trace.
You rework and redefine
A canvas that was already used, marked,
Every touch, brush and grip still glowing against my skin.
Concepts being relative, and context being everything,
I was a virgin.
I had never been touched in the ways you touched,
And I wanted to bend, stretch, bleed
For you.
I wanted to let you have me, take me.
All this I told you with my eyes, bowed head, and bent knees.
“Fuck me.”
My body is a work of art created in dyad.
The colors, sometimes vivid and aggressive
And sometimes muted and soft,
Are a mixture of us.
You see, I too mark my own skin, flesh and bones.
My body is a map.
I am the cartographer.
Desire, my language.
I find myself
In your touch.
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