Violent Touch

My gender is a writhing thing in the corner 

 

I poke it with a stick every so often to see how it will move.

 

My sex is a warm pink alien I cup in my hand

 

There is a violence to my own touch that I cannot shake

 

When I touch my fingers to a boys palm I am asking him to hand me an answer 

 

When I press my lips to a girls mouth I am trying to steal something I've never seen

 

When I wrap my arms around a person's waist I am begging to fold them into my ribcage

 

And keep them there until I can see the way forward 

This poem is about: 
Me

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