Sensual Consciousness

Touch. Taste. Oh, the rough tenderness of
his fingertips on our skin,
how his lips taste to our tongue.

Forgive us, our Father, for we have
sinned. Even if it is only her that has sinned.

Shuddering at the thought of
scaring his caresses away, of guilt
pouring over our flushed face,
his lips burning with our blush.

We should blush, even at the very thoughts
that seem to saturate your very being.

Whispering reassurances in his ear,
brushing our lips across his
whisker-roughened skin.

Feel our heart drumming? Feel our
palms perspiring? This should not be.

His hands reaching for us,
wanting our embrace, our body
close to his, our skin beginning to
tingle at every brush of his hand.

We must think. What would our
mother think? Our father say?

Seeing our clothes drop to the
floor, not wanting the caress to extend
this far, telling him no, to stop.

Finally, someone listens to me as
though I am capable of making sense.

Struggling to convince him to walk away,
to forget about our tender words, our
loving caresses, our desire to be loved,
to be held, to be safe inside his arms.

His arms are not safe. We must stop him
now, before he enters our world.

Trembling as the frigid air sneaks
under the closed door and bites at
our naked skin as we push him back.

Close our life off to him. Do not
let him violate our sanctuary.

Squeezing our eyelids shut as our body is
forced against the satin sheet, the fluid material
now rough against our bruised skin, our limbs
trembling as we press our weakness against his strength.

Breathe, it will all be over soon.
Imagine safety in your mother’s arms.

Opening our eyes as the pressure is released,
hearing the door swing on its rusty hinges
as the winter wind swirls around our body.

He is gone, we are safe now, with no
memory of our shield being ripped away.

Holding our arms tight around our body, staving
off the piercing cold, wanting to embrace our
spirit as well as our life, thanking a higher
power for the ability to forget.