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.