My hand leaves red marks
on your leg.
I hate to see them fade and disappear, so
I better
grab you harder this time, hold you
tighter, longer.
I don’t want it to stay forever,
just a little bit longer.
If you can forget,
it’s not worth remembering.

(Maybe this is why
I never find myself attracted to
black women-
all the marks left on them are
invisible.)

I’ll take whatever you’re selling
as long as you’re offering yourself up.
Nothing is worthless.
I’ll cover my whole self
in your shit,
from head to toe,
even if it makes me sick.

This is my desire,
is your sex,
our love.
What do you have left for me?