Her thin cotton wrap
Fit her body in a way
I’ll never have
Leaving me aching
And while she was content
To be naked under her golden dress
I blundered into rebuke beneath the hem
Leaving me wondering
Why I was there
Until I realized
Hedonists’ borders meet at pleasure
And one’s pleasure is oft another’s torture
But her torture was her being
Not her act
Thus immune to her wiles
I was content to be there with her
In the broom closet
Taking everything she offered
Between my arms
At my fingertips
Within my lips
Causing her torture to backfire
When my old friend confusion showed up
To scramble the script
Making her forget her lines
And her hunger chaste at the realization
I wasn’t a target she selected
But bait for the trap she unwittingly built for herself
Ready and willing to be devoured
With pleasure at joint feast
As no one ever expects
Dinner to bite back

©Heather Coldstream


About cistotrans

A Seattle-area trans woman seeking a happy spot to stay at along the path of transition.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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