and slide them prettily down past
and just to the left, there
raking my skin into an orange fever --
above where an unplucked breast
aches fast for your attention:
just to the left, there.
that is my weapon of choice,
that is the reason for all i do
and if your infinite fingers are
then it is in such disarray
as it short-circuits out of necessity
pounding on through the rib cage trap
some creator made for it --
there, that is your answer
to how i feel
if you want to know.