(this is poetry.)
The day found magnets in my breasts and I danced the pressure down to my knees, left my heels exposed as they ran from the stress that the balls of my feet found the energy to thrust into the floor. The thighs found comfort in being suppressed because they feel that it’s on again. The vibrations rang the song from the tip of my chin, parallel from the ceiling light fixture to the lobe of my ear that missed being bare without a hole in it. I am like that hole, dancing with no rhythm or flow, stiffly moving downward towards the board of wood that remind my feet of the wishes and the “could’s” and him, and his dancing shoulders.
I should’ve known he’d come to mind. I can’t have a moment to shine, not unless he comes to mind. I can’t have one thought to myself, not unless his eyes are on the shelf of my subconscious, waiting to interrupt my intuition’s current topic. This love is unhealthy, to say the least. I don’t even see his face on the street. His car doesn’t haunt me anymore, he’s gone physically but his memories take a front seat to my every day and his friends make sure that those thoughts get to stay because if they even sense that I’m moving away, they appear, with something to say that will make me return to his lake of fucking indigo ripples and pampers floating in them.
I can’t ignore that day when I felt the moon communicate with me that he was to be my first baby daddy. My face during the sex was so unsexy and I should’ve known he wasn’t for me because that nigga never noticed a thing. He just wanted his sword to be sharpened and he wondered why I wouldn’t let him in. My heart sure did, but my yoni said, “Shid, get this nigga up outta here. this ain’t no holiday in. That nigga ain’t tryna have no kids so don’t make a habit of this.” and I didn’t, I told him that I wouldn’t go forward with kissing him even though I knew that I would be missing him and those dancing shoulders of his.
The first time we danced together was when we also first kissed and we also laid skin to skin and I uttered, “I think I’m in love again” and he felt like Hercules and I ran away because “How could it be? Not from the sword that stabbed through my sacral energy." I always saved time to evaluate it, even in the middle of love-making, because I’ve never been all there with him. I didn’t let him in. He was too playa-playa and still exploring his sexuality. He was 200 pounds heavier some years before and wasn’t getting wet or kissed so this was his time for wilding on clits. I wish he danced on mine the way he moved his shoulders in the Dragon's Den.