palms lounge

pausing of time in her particular curving of spine, by the sofa in a green dress, her toes clasping like oak roots semi-arid, sacrilege in her moan/come praise her. when she does shrug you away, take it gamefully, as an athlete is cut, as a vine is pulled and tossed by a listless hand covered in sapphire irritant. to be rejected is to be too much, a recipe of brooding, a hunt overshooting game. I objectify. I am an object. rum along my middle finger and coke on my palm, a lounge chair from leopard skin, things I gain in giving up.
—  Stimie