Blooming Orgasms
A Poem
Two fingers, digging through me,
like mandarines in the summertime.
Liquids flowing, sticky and wet,
onto your fingertips.
A peony that blooms only when the sun pays attention
to its bright pink petals,
and it’s inner carpel.
It begs for love, tenderness and care.
My back and neck arch against the garden bed,
the smooth sliding of your tongue
glides through my body,
along every scar, bruise,
stretchmark, birthmark and
the dry patch of skin.
You are like a bee, a butterfly, a burning sun
and a pest that comes for more.
But rooted deep into the earth I remain, you are
the attention I need for satisfactory survival.
My tulip’s pistil waiting to see sun and rain,
as each coral coloured petal
slowly peels away.
You’re bees, stinging and stabbing,
attempting to find honey, pleasure and comfort.
Your fingers, tongue, and the tip of you
open these petals and let it be exposed to nature
your presence.
My stem almost breaks, hoping you’ll see
I’ll open and close when the sun comes and when you decide
to dig deeper into my pistil or my carpel,
I’ll sway with the wind;
fooling you into thinking I enjoy this.
Orgasmic constellations above my head,
mesmerising the thoughts and moans that come through these lips;
you hold me down and loosen your grip.
I almost bloom once,
I close my petals.
I bloom again,
for the moons, the stars, the suns and the clouds
aching and begging for me to bloom.
But after you dig my garden,
water my grass,
dig through the fruit I bare…
my blooming orgasms will never come,
because may you come first.
