The first time I measured your palms against my thighs, I did so with the intent
of not getting caught. Found my way around your body like a mall forty minutes
before closing time, anxious with heavy breath, as if someone had hooked my heart
on a string and tossed it into the center aisle as bait for the store clerk.
We rolled around in your bed like sardines, attempting to kiss one another so hard
that we swallowed our tongues like peach pits.
When the door started to creak open on its rusty hinges,
hinges my father had promised we would oil months ago,
its sound was an alarm, a warning signal like the white plastic tags stuck onto clothes
that spray ink like squid when torn from the fabric.
We removed ourselves from that bed so fast you’d have thought the cops had come
to shake its pockets down to search for stolen goods.
When he came into the room, I hid the scent of your body in the space between
my gums and teeth like a shoplifted key, hoping I would have the chance
to open your double doors again sometime.
We wouldn’t have to be so worried about getting caught
if we weren’t both girls.