She is something out of a dream.
She is strong and beautiful and intelligent and well. She is all skin and bones with no clothes on.
She is whispering in my ear how much she loves me. How much she’s been wanting to do all this with me.
I love you, she says. I’ve never loved anyone this much.
I feel like with each word she steals the breath out of me. My heart is racing. I want to do everything on earth with her. To her.
My fingers are circumnavigating her body. Finding new territories. Marking old ones. Like pushpins on a world map. There is nothing more calming.
She is touching me softly now, inching her fingers into the space between my legs.
Can I? she asks.
Something breaks inside of me because I remember. His hands going up my thighs.
I can hear trees being ripped from the ground. House windows shattering. Screaming. It is painful.
She notices. She stops. Are you okay? I love you. I’ve never loved anyone this much.
I take her hand from between my legs. I have to tell you something.
Go right ahead, baby. Whenever you’re ready.
I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner.
What is it?
My fingers are memorizing the shape of her fingers like braille. I’m not looking her in the eye. Please be patient with me. I’m scared. I’m so scared.
Am I too aggressive? Her voice is shaky. Concerned.
No, not at all. I just.
She asks me again. Can I? But her fingers don’t make their way down to my thighs; they hold my face. Caress it like soft tears. I realize then that she is asking for consent just to kiss me. Consent. For a kiss.
I nod. She kisses me, and she waters my roots. Puts new windows in place. Murmurs sweet I love yous and hushes the screaming. It is safe. Sound.
I’m sorry. I’m just. Not used to it. The guy before you. He never asked me if he could. He just did.
She tells me she loves me. Presses her lips against my forehead. My collarbone. My shoulder blade. My hipbone. Like pushpins on a world map.
In the morning we wake, and I turn to look at her.
She is strong and beautiful and intelligent and well. She is whispering in my ear how much she loves me. Her hands are on my face. And each time she moves them, she asks if it is okay.
She is something out of a dream.
Christen Dimalanta is a 20-year-old poet from Guam. She is majoring in Literature because she is in love with words. When she is not writing about wolves, she is running with them; she is not here for people to prey on. The wolves and their survival songs inspire her poetry, found on: http://shewolfwritings.wordpress.com.