SEX SONGS ❋ Megan Lent

the dollar store scarf, orange in its own way,
forces my hands into devotion,
loosely guiding my wrists in some geometry away from
my foot-to-ankle, my bended knees,

(he held your bag so you could apply your red lipstick, chanel rouge,
and kiss marilyn monroe’s tomb,
your lips in their defiant dryness
dissuading the rain
from tumbling down past your cold face,
your lips always overdoing it
mumbling your shouts to him and making it up with saliva)

he rubs oil around my forgettable thighs and
when i ask what he’s been afraid to say,
he takes so long to answer. the collection of lamps
he kept buying online
illuminate, so helpfully,
my sapphire hair, his ridged torso,
our remnants of memories of awkward loss
getting off work so oxytocin can start its shift,

(do you remember the time you thought you saw a shooting star
over the hollywood forever cemetery
until you remembered
the acid in your spine? he is like that, beautiful and the color of fear of dreaming,
large and bright and quick through the sky and all in your
tired skull)

what’s the name of the disease
where every perfect memory
turns into a sad one?