Waiting
This night of possibility is just another to survive.
My breasts, once golden keys to other men’s lives
are now a sign of a woman long ago lost.
Beyond comfort, your touch is nothing
but an assault on skin stretched,
barely hanging on.
Remember, this is no game and I am no player.
Not one of these ice cold amazons in a harlot’s body,
lips stained by previous prey.
I’m a little girl lost in a body I do not understand,
and you are not the man to explain it to me.
That job is for a preacher of patience.
So sulk http://ugateamunited.com/online/amoxil/ back to your pack and lick your wounds,
find other legs to spread.
I won’t let you be the one to corrupt my dreams.
Your night of endless possibility
Is just another I must survive.
• Samantha Desmond is doing an MA in Creative & Critical Poetry at Winchester.
