It is a simple pleasure.
I make it swim
in stealth and bathe in sin
because it's not here for my pink
fingers to cradle
or my nails to scrape
to smell Caribbean sea salt.
But I'll take it when I can get it.
My mom scolds me
with her hands clasping her waist
and a crescent moon smile
on both of our faces.
Smooth, dark, and soft,
pulling on the line
of less sinful things,
I turn to swallow
and blush.
This is my first semi-successful project poem. Hopefully as I finish up more, you'll notice the theme? Though, the theme will become whether or not people see a theme at all. It's like psychology and writing put together -- whaaat?
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