You’re in my blood, my bones, my very human body, maybe even my soul. I store you in my hips, locked away, tucked away with the other penetrations that hurt so good, with the other times I left my body. I let you be my body, hold my body, touch my body, insert yourself within my body, create a little body within my body. But I was no body until you came and moved my body stimulated my body unshackled my body. It wasn’t until you, did I know the things my body could do. Could feel. Could be. I could have had your child, incubated her, then birthed her. But you were just a body, a some body, and she needed more. She didn’t even get to become a body. But I still wanted your body, to make a home in that masculine body, but there was no one home. It was empty. It was a shell. And it was cold. How had my body allowed that body to enter her, to suck the life from hers to yours. How had I been so wrong? Where was my home? Was I a shell as well?

Two shells numbed, but two shells lusting for the horizontal body dance. The language only bodies speak. But your body spoke it better, it was more versed in such a dialect. And mine melted into stimulation, to raw and primal spaces, alas an escape from the floating head. I could feel a pulse, a vibration, an awakening. And my body wanted more. But more could not fill the empty shell, and less could not empty the head so full. And you knew the paradox I was being asked to face to earn that pleasure from your body to my body. You took my virginity and ran with my Mary. You opened my hips and invited the pain to come unhinged. Sacrificing my pain for the lust of me to you. A promised place of protection in your body was only a promise of betrayal. The more your body lingered on mine the more I had no body to be. I had no place to touch down, I had no feelings to express my thoughts from. I only had the moments of penetration to be some body.