He Likes ‘Em Exotic

I am exotic.

A new flavor. A taste of a foreign land. Like the unusual bird with the colorful feathers, I too am a collector’s item. A rare find. Something to be put on display, but only for a limited period of time. These things must be rotated lest the viewer tire from looking at the same thing for too long. A fruit of the month club, if you will, and I am the fruit this month. I am exotic. An enigma. But a pretty one. Or so I am told. Loud hair with a soft voice. That’s what he likes. What are you? I wish I knew. Almond eyes. Olive skin. Pink lips. Keep em closed.  No more dolmades for you. Salty soul. Too bitter. Didn’t yaya ever tell you that nobody likes grapefruit without sugar? Curvy hips. Too curvy. Enough mousaka. Thick locks. Unibrow? Get it waxed. I am exotic. Mystery lollipop. Take off the wrapper. What are you? Loud hair. Louder voice. Almond eyes see more than you think. Pink lips wide open. Dolmades in. Words out. Salty soul. Fiery soul. More soul than the sea. Think twice. Think twice, silly boy, before you mess with me. Mousaka? Yes please. Thick eyebrows. So what? Mama has em too. Theia, theia kita, kita the boy got eaten by the tiger at the zoo.

I am exotic.

 

Featured Image: “Woman on Rug” by Andy Dixon, 2013 via Oracle Talk

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