Submitted by megan on Sun, 08/10/2008 - 22:02
I’m embarrassed you might come home. Find the clothespins biting my skin into white eyes, making the fuzz on my belly stand up. The quiet hum of the vibe my echolocation. The shapes it carries back: the wavering room, my voice slicing its edges, the words misshapen grunts when I come. How my legs twitch like antenna in time with the pulsing of my cunt.