I Haven'T Shaved My Legs
The first, second, third time we met
it was there.
Some indescribable need, at least on my part.
We learned interesting things
about one another
and laughed, scowled, tutted
in the process.
And finally, finally, among friends
we realised
that we were more beautiful together
as we talked about poetry and literature
while the rest talked nonsense
fuelled by alcohol.
We spoke as though no one was more interesting than us
and our eyes, lips, skin met
with a need
a hunger
as though the smell of rum and cigarettes were the smells of a rare flower,
and we left.
Company deserted, we stumble
onto the hard bed, I fall
but barely notice.
We work together
unhinge, unzip, unbutton
and peel away layer upon layer of clothes -
it's cold outside,
don't laugh.
It could be love, or lust
or madness
but in the throes of passion
and, apparently, in societies grip, I stop
and from my mouth almost tumbles the word
“Sorry.”
I haven't shaved my legs.
In this moment
I shake.
For if society can reach me at my highest,
my happiest, my most courageous -
at my point of ecstasy
then what has it done,
then when has it snuck in,
then how many times has it subtly changed my experiences
at my weakest?
You barely notice my turmoil
and that's fine.
I notice,
I know.
Now, hush
Lay down.
It's my turn on top.
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