Keyholes by Rae White

  1. Tristesse

Your cock shrivelled caked in used condom and I whisper in sharp wet sobs, a

waterfall in verse. In this piercing moment nothing can possibly be good. With

fingertip I circle the red hard pimple on your thigh. Breathing slows my head

soggy cotton and I nudge my damp face against your neck.

 

  1. Compersion

Your neck breathes her smell of damp wood and lavender. I can see the ghost of

her can see her drift onto your lap, air stained with sighs your auburn hair heavy

from touch and sweat. I am her mirror getting harder with each grip colour-in

the bruises she made on your skin.

 

  1. Ego

In the mirror glint of shop window I see skin downy like baby scalp and I’m lost

in the performance of it, the incline of head: pout smile wink. Later, I take myself

home. A ritual undress for worship to count each freckle each slope. Hand glide

to scoop black wet hair and have myself again and again because what is more

fulfilling than the thrill of discerning hands?

 

Originally published in CQ6: Smut.

Rae White | they them
Rae White is a non-binary transgender writer and zinester living in Brisbane. Their poetry collection Milk Teeth won the 2017 Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the 2018 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Poetry. Rae is the editor of #EnbyLife, a journal for non-binary and gender diverse creatives.

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