under the swell of my ass
where my thigh meets the meat right there that’s
where it hurts.
i still see your face, from the side
head tossed back
slack jawed with bony hips
like some small shiv sticking in
and twisting the twisted twists like
some kind of rough grip on my clip and you
made me certain of everything in
this is something i have to do for myself.
when i ask you to pull my hair you get hard.
i don’t think you want to know
my opinion on that.
i have to
i want to always be held by the hips. your
fingers have their own pulse.
i should stop feeling a way when the train
rolls into your station
but it took me years to quit the nausea
of driving by her block i have no control
over my emotions. that’s true.
i’m predictable. that’s true.
i’m weak and that’s still true.
someone unknown soldered our flaws to a
brass bend and asked us to play
an instrument we knew nothing
but we said we’d try.
we’re gonna die.
i’m hearing the harmonies for the first time.
– all sex is is one big motion and you’re crippled now that you’ve moved
Image by Dimitri Parant
alexis briscuso lives in brooklyn, ny. she was previously featured in voicemail poems summer 2017 issue. she tweets @nikonamerica and talks too much about english rock bands and ryan reynolds.
Gem Blackthorn is QMT's Sex Columnist, and the author/curator of Lust Thrust Thursdays. Send her your submissions and questions at sexsexsex [at] queenmobs.com