The two month old hair on my legs
makes me feel like more of a woman
than the wire that cuts the underside of my breasts every day,
or the sticky palms of weeklong boymen
that creep just past my hairline.
I am a woman not just when my uterus is being squeezed,
my un/neverborns staining my good panties.
I am a woman even though I never had a father to own me first,
then sell me to another man later.
My womanhood is my say-so.
Sometimes I grab my matchbook and light the candle on my dresser,
not because I can’t see,
but just to hear the wick laugh as the fire tickles it
and to see the shadows take turns spinning each other against the wall.
If I could I’d have you on me all the time,
lay you on thick like coats of nail polish.
(maybe that bright green one you say reminds you of three-legged dragons)
Your caramel hands are smaller than mine,
but they still grasp my denim thighs just fine.
So fine, in fact, I think you’d crash the car sooner than unstick yourself from me.
It’s not August yet but we’re in Texas so
it’s already too hot to drive with the windows down,
but I’ll sweat my sacrifice to see your chocolate curls tussle
and the 8PM sunset in your eyes.
KYNDAL COLÓN is a Mad Black Woman™, a broke college student, and a mother of seven cats. After a long day of reading, writing, and being a vapid SJW, she can be found browsing the bookstore she works at or pining over cute girls that are way out of her league.