In the spirit of all things we are not, I should be honest. Demand:
take your cardigan off first, then my pantyhose, use your tongue to sound-out
our silence. I should confess to years under tongues of lovers who tried
to lick me clean. How awful I am at wearing rings or
honoring vows to the man who made me a mother
and to the mother I pretend to be. I take blame
in believing someone else will settle my skin to bone.
We are the pause in between breaths after I remind you:
my search to be free has nothing to do with you and me.