Moving In

Rubber slaps and snaps, as
slick blue is stretched
over pink flesh.
Water, running—
creates a sheen,
marred by soapy rivulets;
speckled with scum
Inside hot and powdery
—or wet; sweat?
No longer sure, but
blue knuckles are thinning the skin of them—
flexing the thing of them;
marking me white
and stained
—with the smell of them.
The cloying, clinging, lingering, latexy stench of them
—long after they have been
peeled off like a second skin,
discarded in the bin.

© Ammie-oy 2010


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