Milkteeth“We’re pregnant!”Milkteeth by crimsonletters
But you smile nonetheless and make a little sound of surprise. The good stuff because that’s what they want to hear. Not your opinion on how weird their announcement sounded. And the thought of a parasite— fetus— goddamn it, say it right: baby growing inside one of them. One of them is pregnant—not we.
“Six weeks in!”
Jesus, do they want you to do the maths.
Still you smile. All tiny white teeth—
(( around rosy nipple, her gasps mygod ))
And nod, because you’ve learned nodding at people suggests empathy. And that’s all you want to emanate at the moment.
You remember a song from when you were twenty-one and punk rock: St. Jimmy, Green Day
I'm the patron saint of the denial
“We were thinking, since you’re like family to us…”
Are you talking to me?
“Would you want to be the godfather?”
I'll give you
EXTRACURRICULARYou areEXTRACURRICULAR by crimsonletters
letting the jacket cover
slide down the book
again, instead of taking it
off like you taught me--
how you are
coping with the sun by
your side intrigues me more
than a paperback.
(I can see two
sets of spine.)
Your eyes races across
pages as mine
starts to sweat.
(I have to
stop for awhile.)
If your naked skin starts to sing
and as we are
in a moment of
silence, please allow my lips to tone
it down into a hum, vibrating between two
shades of flesh:
bare peach and unattained
--place the book down though,
and shush us
altogether as I may