23 / 30 : erotica.

allergiesssssssssssssssssssss DAMN!!!!! get me to school.

erotica 

if i made love to a poet

would the sight of my silhouette

a shadow slithering out of an ensemble

like a snake shedding its skin

get his 

creative

juices flowing

would he stroke me with his left hand

and jot down notes with his right

too busy trying to figure out

an elusive metaphor for my brown skin

while i wait for him to finish

in heightened anticipation

would he hold me tightly and kiss me

would thoughts of turning this moment

into intricate iambic pentameter

make his manhood rise like the eastern sun

and when he melted into the mold of me and i

moaned a melody of ecstasy

would he stop to make a mental note

of how to turn my bellows into a ballad

and when our bodies were depleted

and i put my head on his chest 

would he hold me close to his heart

until i fell asleep to his irregular rhythm

or would he push me aside

to open his mac

and attack the keyboard 

before my naked, natural scent

leaves his sweaty skin 

and he loses his train of thought

he'd be damned

a perfectly good poem evaporating

and out of reach

would he make me climax

because he loves the sound i make

or would he make love to me 

for art's sake?

text messages.

so it's another night
of me texting you
and you texting me
back within seconds and
i laugh out loud because
you're silly and
you're clever and
you're cute.

but every time i press send
i feel like
i'm jumping
in the deep end of a pool
and i can't swim
i feel like
i'm running a race but
you won't let me win so
what's the point.

and i know that
you're different than
alot of the rest but
that's how they all
are until
they you get to know
them

but despite
the odds stacked up
against me
and the bricks you've
lain as this fortress
to keep me out
i still love it when i see
on my phone
new message
followed by
your name
again and
again and
again

the questions.

so i must admit
after a fresh perm
a mini spree at the mall
and poppin lipgloss
ya girl was looking
damn good when i went
to walmart this evening to get
what i needed for the
remainder of the semester from hell.

and i'm in the cosmetic section
perusing maybelline lipgloss
[yeah, i had some on. but you
can never have enough] and i was
in the middle of trying to figure out
if papaya splash smells better to me than
watermelon fresh when this employee

[male, black, almond colored,
about 6 foot even,
broad shoulders,
fresh post-thanksgiving fade, crisp khakis
new looking sperrys, straight teeth,
big smile]

wearing a name tag that yelled
RUSSELL in big black letters tapped me
on my shoulder.

i stood up and put on my mug
because i thought he was going to accuse me of
stealing lip gloss but
from his
full lips, he asked me,

where's your man?

and i just sort of stood there, looking
really stupid. papaya splash in one hand,
watermelon fresh in the other.
i tried to gather my bearings,
re-establish the cool points i clearly lost
licked my lips slowly, squinted my
already chinky eyes and put my hand on
my pronounced hips.

i don't have one, i declared.

you're lying, he stated.

why would i lie? i asked.

because. you look like
the type of girl - excuse me -
the type of woman who would have
a nigga like me on lockdown.


[insert awkward, 10 second pause]


he smiles.
i frown.

well, i say
i guess appearances can be deceiving then,
as i put both papaya and watermelon
back in their respective places.

they're scared of you, russell said.

what? i ask.

i don't even know you, miss,
but i can already tell that
you would make a nigga work for his
and niggas don't like to work for anything
except...you know. he said.

yeah. i know, i replied.

i tried to stand up tall
and make myself look tough.

russ-ell, i breathed slowly.
why are you asking me all these questions?

i don't know, he said.
because i noticed you.
you're a beautiful woman and
your gear is tight but
you looked like you're missing something.

like what, i asked.

like love, he said.

[awkward silence, recommences]

and if you ever wanted to not
be lonely, he continued,
i work at register 23,
monday through friday. so maybe
one saturday you'll let me
take you out and
love you for a night.

i pick up my purse and
pat down my hair and
straighten my skirt and
i say to him

i'm too busy for love
right now but the next time
i come back home
maybe
i'll stop by
register 23.

he gives me a half smile as i
walk past him
trying to convince myself to
believe the words
that just came out of my mouth.