“I don’t trust women,” I tell you.
What I meant was that I don’t trust myself.
Because somehow, I cried anyway, and you took me away:
into the men’s room, cigarette smoke, scotch.
It’s an acquired taste, but
I still like red lights.
I escaped your black bonds, but
I still see your eyes in strangers,
and sometimes, I still see strangers.
And sometimes I wish that the others would kiss like you.
I guess that bondage is a big part of it, after all.
the old art, the tactic of rendering a lover submissive.
Isn’t it the fear, after all, that’s so sensual about it?
Or knowing what the silver of that necklace tastes like by heart,
that these fragile lungs can still throw you over on your back,
that no one else will ever kiss like this.
So, this is what I have left then:
five scars and a fear of handcuffs,
crying for all the women.
By: Lauren Sukin, Contributor