Her hair must hide a secret; it is huge and bright
Like the sun that exclaims through fingers, sutured—
A million wires escorted by the screech
Of electrons, colonies of them hot and red,
Every one. They are mad as burn victims,
Mad as menstruation. She is woman.
Her legs are ice picks, her thighs, agreeing. The redness
Of translucent organs attends her like roses
Or blood pouches. It is all young and careless
And carries with it the particular potent reek of
Puberty. The whole concept of it eludes me—look:
My chest, a floor of skin, and hers
Full and arched like fertility. What is it
That I do wrong, that the fat like elements
Does not set right, does not own the right bones?
Upstairs, her heels strike the floors like forks, release like horses.
The loudness threatens my pulse. A shadow
Falls and continues for miles, and I, beneath it—
I am wide, general and anonymous.
I weaken from awe that unties my knees.
The splendour flattens me to sheets.
It is optimism that annihilates my every breath
Like exit holes, punctuation in my ribcage.
In this astonishing womanliness, I am impossible and void—
Of head, of lung, of throat.
Adding your comment:
Thank you for all the comments. I didn't mean to press you yesterday when I said "I've written 3 poems pis t'es comment même pas!" hehe. And yes I was the one who wrote with ampulla. We're the only two ones who could remember the password. i.e. something about a body of water and un agrume. 
Ew doris.
Ok I'll stop screwing around with you. Thank you for the very... imaginative comment. You are ever so sweet as well. Do you know the artist Peaches? As in the music person that writes really sexually charged songs? She's hilarious too.
