blue balls

She knew what she was doing--
how quickly Anticipation became
A weapon, I could not tell.
But the result was swift,
Like a knife cutting air,
Only, the space left did
Not come back together
In one piece, nor was
The damage invisible.
I’d spent the past three months
Being a gentle man, knowing
I was not entitled to anything
And that her body was a temple
Of which no amount of money
Gained admittance. So, I kissed
Her hand before entering, I even
Took my shoes off—but that wasn’t
Enough. She wanted me to come in
With my skin exposed to light, head
To toe and back again. She wanted
Candles and oils and incense, a
Combination that made it hard to breathe
But made my heat rise like steam
From ones wet head in a midnight
summer’s dream—she wouldn’t let me
get close enough to the door to walk through.
She opened it and closed it, wanted me
To see what was inside, what treasures belonged
To her and only her.

She needed a marathon man but I had only began
To run cross-country. She wanted to talk
About it, let my desire marinate like ice
In a glass, waiting to be washed by red wine.
She wanted to talk about it.
To talk about it—not do (it), whatever it was.
Because I was worthy, let infatuation turn to
Admiration looked like love now, I embodied
Everything but a lover. She needed a rough nigga,
That takes love and gives it hard, leaves tears rolling
Down her face, but throws the dick so well, it
Penetrates the most fucked up of memories—disintegrates
All reason, all truth, all pain and replaces them
With his own. She was teaching me a lesson—
How could she fuck a guy that was afraid to say “pussy”
That wrote poems about women that didn’t exist,
That made love from his hands, created things
She thought were more beautiful than her?

How could a guy like that get a piece,
A piece a piece a piece of that ass,
Unless he called for it on the street,
Just like that,
For all to see, even loud enough
For his mother to hear?