By Breannah Holton.
Feel my face first, drop your weapons and touch,
I won’t drop my fists but tense every tendon starting from my wrists,
Please be tepid to the touch.
I promise a reading of your temperature, if you promise I won’t burn my tongue
Why be comfortable? always be sceptical,
Promise you won’t gather your weapons and run.
From finger to thumb, raise me your trepidatious hand,
Feel around for bone and find my spine, burrow your hands in my pits,
“So tomorrow, you have any plans?”
You should shudder, prove this is a double-blind affair…
From finger to palm, from flesh to bone, ask with fear and trembling
“What are you?”
And i’ll drop my weapons and touch.
Curiosity and tenderness, curiosity and care,
they’re forming here in my sentence,
As I feel throughout your hair.
Kiss my hand or bite it, the intent is all the same,
consume me whole, with no restraint
Let self-preservation persuade you, and you’ll have only yourself to blame.
Hold your nerve as I hold you to mine,
undress my face, hold it far but firm,
I’ll kiss your bruises; I do this while your blind,
But I find, I am no panacea to your problems, no ointment to your burns,
You say I abandoned you,
I say I saved us both,
Because I left when undressing you finally became my turn.
I left my weapons and ran.
Photo cred: Cosmos