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.