Your cock shrivelled caked in used condom and I whisper in sharp wet sobs, a
waterfall in verse. In this piercing moment nothing can possibly be good. With
fingertip I circle the red hard pimple on your thigh. Breathing slows my head
soggy cotton and I nudge my damp face against your neck.
Your neck breathes her smell of damp wood and lavender. I can see the ghost of
her can see her drift onto your lap, air stained with sighs your auburn hair heavy
from touch and sweat. I am her mirror getting harder with each grip colour-in
the bruises she made on your skin.
In the mirror glint of shop window I see skin downy like baby scalp and I’m lost
in the performance of it, the incline of head: pout smile wink. Later, I take myself
home. A ritual undress for worship to count each freckle each slope. Hand glide
to scoop black wet hair and have myself again and again because what is more
fulfilling than the thrill of discerning hands?
Originally published in CQ6: Smut.
Rae White | they them
Rae White is a non-binary transgender writer and zinester living in Brisbane. Their poetry collection Milk Teeth won the 2017 Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the 2018 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Poetry. Rae is the editor of #EnbyLife, a journal for non-binary and gender diverse creatives.