Guest blog: She writes a new poem about rebirth, every day

Picture by the awesome Stuart F Taylor

I love poetry, and especially sexy poetry, so I was over the moon when Lexy – who runs the Lexy Experiment Tumblr (NSFW) – got in touch with me to offer this fantastic piece. It’s sexy and wistful and gorgeous, and I hope you love it as much as I do. If you’re a poet too, please do feel free to pitch me a guest poem!

She Writes A New Poem About Rebirth, Every Day

She pulls a blanket over her head, so the birds

won’t see her cry.

 

She touches her pussy reluctantly sometimes

but most mornings it is the first thing she thinks of,

 

sliding eagerly in the sandy sheets.

She whispers to herself as she walks on the beach,

 

films herself facing the ocean;

if she lets herself go completely, its roar

 

rides through her pelvis. She could not have started this alone.

Over and over she wants him to ask for it,

 

wants him to want her wanting,

wants desire to fill her until she feels full.

 

She can make herself whimper with her fingers,

she always wants more.

 

She writes a new poem about rebirth,

wrings one more story out of this romance.

 

Her nipples are hard, her skin is hot,

it seems she’s found stillness and

 

she shorts out again. She wonders if she should stop.

This reality could be reshaped,

 

she could rename herself, again. She could wear a wig.

She wants a new wardrobe;

 

could be a woman who laces herself

into waist training.

 

She wants to feel safe, to feel the steel bones bind her.

Instead, she rests a palm softly

 

on her solar plexus. She doesn’t pick up a pen.

She whistles to herself the words of a new poem.

 

She pushes her fingers into her panties when they speak;

she said she would, always, and she is meticulous.

 

Sometimes she slips them so her silk tingles before they begin.

She handicaps herself, she helps herself, she wants to work

 

hard, she is serious, wants to speak with conviction and precision,

wishes to make herself gasp between words.

 

She comes a dozen times a day

while she wills herself to write once more

 

about rebirth. She stops coming, or she slows down,

lies back, stares at the fading purple pacific sky and

 

slides her eyelids closed. She wants to crumble and curse,

wishes to be desperate. She doesn’t know why.

 

She writes a new poem about rebirth when she wakes,

but she reads her words and these answers

 

sound so shallow, so she writes six more.

She wants to be a woman who pulls her own shadow strings,

 

he wants her to sit with her thighs apart,

she lets him play with her like a puppet,

 

squirms when she thinks about the ways he is prying her open,

why she wants him to pin her down. She wants wings.

 

She loves artifice but when he fucks her she wants to feel it.

He wets her with fulsome words,

 

his expectations could fill the ocean and overflow its shores;

she wonders if they would sink the stars.

 

She wishes she could resurrect herself with sophistication,

she bites her lip, writes lists

 

with words that help her see him without sentiment.

Places some of them in a poem.

 

She brushes feathers from her lashes,

pushes her face into the pillow,

 

pinches her flesh and holds her breath.

She can fly.

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