These dimly lit caves are not for good girls
like me, where women flaunt
under the male gaze. It is not
eating the fruit that entices
as much as the thrill of holding it
ripe in your hand. I have picked
my poison and it moves my hips.
My arms are raised and I
am screaming the lyrics of a song
I do not know the name of.
We move in sync, arms linked
We are learned creatures, adapting
to fit our surroundings.
We have always been this way
and that is how we love.