Written Seventeen Minutes Ago

Reaching out like
[To: "Frisky Biscuits"]

Fucking is too hard,
so easy to

after holding your hair,
you squeeze down

It comes out of you with no sound
like toothpaste
from the crumple
of your mettle

You ride it
Propel flesh forward (toward)

Your face first
Your teeth come
with you, resting
behind thin sun-dried lips

Across from me
at times

Silent acceptance
of my need
to slide
words between yours:

to force myself
into you,
your eager information,
your stories

are my mail slots,
my playgrounds

are filled
with screaming
mothers clicking
their tongues at me

Holding your gaze
all over my skin

when
I'm not looking