The Second Act

Goddamn.

I want hungry hands. Whispered orders. No thoughts when I melt into that dark warmth.

Someone else to crave what only I am. Someone else to kiss the divots in my hips until they’re raw. My gasps coming out in a stutter; like fine, scrunched pleats of a full circle skirt – my knuckles raw and white.

Gingerly, my hair. Flora and fauna, I’ve flitted and fluttered amongst them and now they no longer see me as foreign and human. I am wild and roots and rumblings with no name.