Powerful Niggatry With Nadia

I got a poem.

Go ahead. Read that. Yeah.

Okay. It’s called mm-hmm. Put that dick down.

Was I really that freaky? Or was my pain that sneaky? I don’t remember joy. I kept waiting for the d*ck to go deeper, reach higher, knock on my heart and say “You’re still alive.”

Kept thinking if my arched my back high enough, kept my head low through my weight back, he’d catch me if I fell in love. The last woman I tasted was a healer. I thought The juices on my cheek, the elixir on my tongue rolling down my throat would cure my broken heart. I spelled help me against her clit.

Maybe she couldn’t hear me over her cries, so I tapped Morse code into the thighs, resting on my shoulders. He said he liked my lips and I assumed he wanted to hear my mouth as if the voice to my inner truths and secrets would create a bridge between our souls. And when he said, say, ah, he thought my throat game was just crazy, when really the hands of my insecurities had wrapped themselves around him, tried to pull themselves up outta me by showing how good they were at this.

I never asked if they wanted my pain to busy trying to bargain with my boundaries for getting the windows to the solar, not the hips, but the eyes. So I never looked there scared. I’d see some version of myself that disgusted me, but the blind will do blind things. Unable to look. They will touch, taste, feel, peel.

You open, spread you wide. Explore your corners and the braille of your composition. But if my pain isn’t on the page, if that wasn’t part of the plan, if that’s not in the script, if it’s just a lost footnote, I get it. Now. You wanna be inside of me, but you didn’t ask to go that deep. Boom. Damn. I love the double Andre that came with that.

Damn. And just so you know, it’s exactly what I was expecting it to be by the title. Mm. And then so, mm-hmm. All right. I’m gonna hit you with the long one and I wrote. This one is actually really, really personal.
 

Mm. I like personal.

I do too. These are actually some of my best poems. They’re personal, personal.

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