I was just a kid, didn’t know
how far I couldn’t go
hunting skin against skin
a legacy of hunger.
I was just a kid. I’d
started bleeding at 10
then learned to wear wit
like a burqa but still I burned.
I yearned for some relief from
wild animals that roamed my skin
at night, leaving shocky fingerprints
between my legs, hunger
warm and ripe in my mouth. Once
a boy said, “Let me put it in just a little bit”
as our parents slept in the next room.
By then I’d already sat bare-assed
a dance tutu over my vagina
as other girls reached thrusting hands.
No one there to tame us we were
children of skin and want. We could
bewitch the innocent with
our terrible, hungry hands
suck them whole into our mouths,
as we played, drunk on desire.