January 2021

by Rachel Lauren 

If her lips were well-defined,         

like rose’s petal, silk you wind,         

then there could be room for mine,         

accidentally

And if she told me there was room,         

inside her bedroom window too,         

I would crawl beneath the moon,         

accidentally

Well she was tall and lean and tan,         

and I just couldn’t— well, I can,         

trace the lines inside her hand,         

accidentally

She might watch me trace them too,         

with language arts books all but strewn,

around the bed inside her room,         

accidentally

If she would close a book to see,         

if I would laugh or I would leave,         

she would be surprised by me,         

accidentally

See, I could study prose of France,         

or the seams that line her pants,         

my heart would flip and it would dance,

accidentally

Still, I’m too weak for sound,         

but her body, long and loud,         

it crawled atop me, pressed my blouse,

accidentally

Her mouth found mine, we kiss,         

not a gentler move than this,         

pink silk lips felt like hot sin,         

accidentally

So if she were to use long hands,         

like a lion to a lamb,         

I’d surrender, I’d be damp         

accidentally

Then if you were to call me dizzy,         

it’s not wrong that I would let me,         

be eaten alive by God’s sweet mercy,

accidentally        

Rachel Lauren is a 30-year-old Miami-born writer currently living in Los Angeles, CA. Drawn to the darkly erotic and oddities that charm and challenge our psyche, her poetic mission aims to put the convolution of love, sex and human nature into ink.