Not That Girl

As I lie fleshed out and fully carved,

Naked and perspiring, I realize,

Maybe I am not greater than the sum of my parts:

Maybe a pretty face and no gag reflex add up to just that:

a lovely little hole for you to christen.

Time for my baptism, love.

Wipe my mouth. No kiss goodbye.

Back to Manhattan

Where I try to make you and me equal

something more than greatest head of your life.

But I never add up.

Next to you, our skin is separated only

by the fur of your snoozing black lab.

I could make a home here.

Taking pup for a walk,

Morning breath kisses,

5 am alarms and wake up sex.

But I am not that girl.

When you look at me, you must see that I’m

Incapable of love or touch beyond touch.

Incapable of banana pancakes and Sunday mornings.

But I’ll show you.

I can love. I can touch, I can feel.

I can whisk and cook and flip.

But I suppose you will never realize that.

Because you will never realize anything

beyond the tip of my soiled tongue.

I could stay trapped in this bed.

A Labrador licking my fingers.

Your fingers licking me.

I count on your fingers the amount of ways you will not notice me,

appreciate me, love me.

The ways that once I step into that cab, you will forget I exist.

Your cock might be chapped and raw,

but you won’t remember what lips made you this way.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, you’ll remember the way your dog clung to my side.