[decode open ends for deeper insights]

Should make myself a museum of all the come I have helped release. The width between my  spread-up thighs is the distance I travel to buy an idea of being loved. Some bodies offer. Some bodies receive. Debit what comes in, credit what goes. The second basic rule of accountancy. The negotiation between giving sex, receiving sex, and enjoying sex. The profile picture of the pursuit of love. A mouth rolled over the full length of a dick, lips blanketing teeth. Thoughts inside head sliding up and down as blood red petals fall to a chorus of he loves me-he loves me not. Your orgasm, mighty boyfriend, is the glue that will bring us together. I count moles on your chest while you’re trying to reach your end or wherever it is that eyes go after a small death. Seven years since mother. My pussy is dry, my mouth is dry. Dripping wet in my appetite for security in labels. Even watching a film is cumbersome with you. Slip on an intellectual condom over the sit back and enjoy part of my brain. I thought my cunt was big & fertile enough a hole to grow stability & commitment from. Stickier it gets, more you feel thirsty. I see your ass getting whipped by your boss in an open plan office You behind laptop forecasting peak seasons for glucose powder, slip into my chat window, ask, how I feel about making us sex only. How humid it the heart that goes across the equator


Preeti Vangani is an MFA candidate at University of San Francisco. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in BOAAT, Public Pool, Juked, Lines+Stars, Boston Accent Lit and Knicknackery. She’s a spoken word poet and has been performing at many local San Francisco events including Voz Sin Tinta and Kearny Street Workshop. Find her online.

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