Lily-White Was Me.

I blamed that lullaby of whispers you sang to me every night your finger tips would lick against my ribs. With each lick a moan from the lips of me. I could taste the contagious dance of your eyes.

You would tell me you longed for it when my fingers would wrap around you. I wondered if you longed for me or just the willingness of me. The whore of me.

Me a commitment of chalky skin stitched to a frame of bones. Bones that facilely break underneath me when you sing that same ol' song of whispers. An ugliness of erubescent cheeks under cobalt stars (eyes).

The first time, you took my virginity. Willing I gave it to you to keep in a box. I hoped you kept the box in a safe place like that small confined place in the back of the beating heat in your ribcage. But deep down I knew, you just threw in the back of your closet known to me as the library of firsts of other lily-white girls. That time was in a garden.

Wired fencing tugged at my shoestring white dress, a rip was the only souvenir I got (it didn't hurt as bad as what you gave me. A first). You pushed your hands underneath my sun dress and brought my laces down to my ankles. I bit my bottom lip until it was raw and you were done. You placed a small kiss my salmon-pink lips, and intertwined your fingers with mine.