your hands were cold and small
and all your fingers were the same length
and you dare ask me
if you had the skill of my thick armed boy
who’s neck I always found myself
staring at, trying to make out the fading
imprints of my lips.
a cold hand on pink lace in classroom darkness
is nothing like stripping after seeing him
in order to savor his smell on my clothes.
small ink stained fingers forcing my thighs open
are nothing like the stars he laced in my mouth.
your eyes scanning the back of my skirt
for a taste of a panty line
are nothing like his eyes scanning mine
with a tension that turned the night
from black to deep indigo.
and you dare ask if your derogatory jokes
compare to the way he whispered in my ear.