What I Want

You are making wings on my back,
The spread of the sound of the force so hard,
And I can’t really think at all,
I love my flesh being molded by you,
Then the whole of you laying on me,
Spit first — so it is your mouth your belly,
Like a cloak of you, an animal,
Giving birth to bruises.

The gaze exchanged when you hurt me,
We visit a shared country,
A map to us,
I look and I look,
We look together.

Will your hand fit in my cunt?
Will each tentacle finger wiggle?
You twist and torque as you burrow into me,
And I am fucking you,
As you are fucking me,
I feel waves and ocean and periwinkle inside of me,
Constantly, we look and look.

The smell of you,
I am always sniffing my way,
I’m a rat or a dog needing to mesmerize my path home,
Your hair a tickling snort,
Your armpit desire settling into my throat,
Your cunt a wet so hard I want to cry.

A long smooth cut,
And I breathe it open,
A star — it is light,
Shine me with blood,
Like a lucky penny.

I want to be bent over,
Like a sailor,
And fucked.
Is that concise enough?
Maybe too concise;
Slow, then fast,
And almost out – wait a second — then brutally in,
Fuck me into another universe.

And you are the ass of my dreams,
With your spread of white skin,
Waiting – and yes I want you,
Tell me how big, how fast, how deep,
Suddenly I am nervous, a girl with worries,
That I will be clumsy and awkward,
When all I want is to throw myself into you.

There are things I want,
An airway of whooshing I cannot stop,
The country of our skin,
Our kisses and the sliding over of bodies,
One into the other,
Geography changes.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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