Peach Hands

I bite in,
raw, with fervour,
it dribbles off my lips and through my fingers.
I am unquenchable, insatiable, 
panting, 
my hunger, thirst, ripe as a summer’s peach,
but it’s a summer’s love that begs to me,
sticky on my skin, 
nestled in my neck.

I want a love pure as a newborn
and sinful as the dead.
My teeth on yours,
unable to quell desire. 

With your peach heart
in my peach hands, 
I take a bite.

Tamed I may be, by a summer’s love. 

The Summers of Adulthood

I’m a child of the hot July sun.

I couldn’t wait to peel a wet bathing suit off my taut skin after a swim. I wanted that first feeling of realizing the sun was still out at 9pm, knowing the season had just begun and anything was possible. I wanted blackened feet from being barefoot all day and bike chain grease on my calves. I wanted sticky popsicle hands that I would only rinse quickly under a hose. I wanted to collapse in bed after a full day outside and finally realize how exhausted I was. I wanted to put potato chips in my sandwiches. I wanted to sit by a crackling bonfire and feel the intensity of the heat. I always felt like I could sit right in the center of the fire and not be burned but feel alleviated.

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