Razor Burn and Peach Perfume I am tired of wanting you, lusting after you, appeasing you. I am tired of entertaining and amusing you. Of making myself over for you. Razor burn and peach perfume. You said we are holding each other back and I picture you holding me locked in a closet, your back against the door while I suffocate in a pile of dresses, silk scarves insinuating their way down my throat banging against the mirror of my side of the door that pulls parts of me into each break. The air is smoggy with perfume musk and talcum dust and insects attracted by my sweet puncturing ripe-rot need slithe out of shaggy carpet corners to slick long rashy kisses against my thighs. And you are still standing with your back held against the goddamn door. Saying over and over again: "You are a girl. Shayna Maydela, you are a girl. You wouldn't have that if you weren't a girl, now would you? This wouldn't feel good if you were not a girl." But I am not a girl and it does not feel good.  ¶ 10:47 PM