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.