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  • HER


Time is a currency without mercy, and my pockets are empty. I am overdrawn. I ache for touch, taste, and the indulgence of flesh. I ache for human interaction, my muscles, pleading to be inspired.

I want to laugh, from my belly. I want to have my lips delighted and shy, all at the same time. I ache to be shy, and feel small, instead of sounding loud, and taking up space. I ache to be intrigued.

Cold, wet, felt, brushes against my lips, and it disgusts me. It reminds me of a wet shower curtain attaching to my legs, and I can taste nausea, I can taste metal. It’s the condensation on the inside of my mask, condensation from my breath sweating against the felt. A water barrier, between my breathing, and air.

I want to hang my head out of a car window, like a dog, and feel the wind against my lips. I ache for the kiss of the wind.

I want to taste the breath of a man, I want to feel the heat in his face, in his cheek. I want a chrysalis. I want…

Touch. To touch, and be touched. To see, and to be seen. To taste, and be tasted. To be drowning in someone.

I want…

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