You feel out for anything resembling empathy or interest on the lower base of my back, 
a gentler hand skimmed over the sliver of skin in between my mini skirt and sheer black top.
On purpose, I don’t wear a bra as we watch torture porn masquerading as a horror film.
My boyfriend writes to me from back home; I leave a message saying I’ll talk to him later. 
Only to abandon myself back into the non-ambiguity of your embrace.

A month passes,
back at the family house to tell my mother of my recurrent irrevocably sinful thoughts about women 
Biting the apple once, if only just in thought. 
My father doesn’t interrupt my discussions of lesbian novels at the dinner table, unaware that 
I am sanctifying the shame that ten years in the Catholic Church could not bury. 

In the tram on a winter night your current fuck-girl doesn’t look me in the eye,
She shows up the next day like, “Are you serious??!” 
Truthfully, reassuringly, nothing is actually going on between us. 
Her boyfriend is in a warmly-lit Bang-cock street as she clings onto you at the after-party 
“Of course you’re the kind to convert straight girls,” I beam with desire in the canapé lit of your dingy apartment.

To dissuade you from speaking to me again I do not talk to you for two weeks, 
I tell you of my non-efficacy in sexual exploits:
I have only kissed three girls over two years ago, I am unmotivated and lazy,
I am traumatized and vulgar, I am not even very good at masturbation
You shrug, of course you are: “It comes pretty naturally to me.” Bitch.

On purpose, you arrive two hours early to my house party only to end up
Eating a pitiful quiche with my boyfriend, 
grinning at the sports references I would never wish to understand,
like the stereotype of a butch girlfriend you truly are.
Faux friendliness doesn’t keep you from glancing over 
You hate it when I drink—
short vodka panting, sea moss hair dye, dressing you up in my punk rocker clothes—
I sometimes tremble when you are near. 
Self-conscious and sweet, taking two steps into the kitchen just to stare down the sink.
Everyone already knows anyway. 

You joke that my cheap Urban Outfitters tulle dress isn’t revealing enough
I joke that I am in love with you, 
We unanimously ignore a sincere chittering beneath our chest plates.