my god

Hidden under the pupil of the moon at night, I dance in my room half-naked, my body skin of silk and hips like valleys molded by an unseen god Nobody has called me beautiful

but I learn young of body and desire and the boy who wants my tongue but not its punctuation my scarf an orange peel my self-love lingerie

One day I’d like to write about beauty and not its hunger One day I want it to be enough that I am soul and not a platter

Until then we smile my concealed deity and I at the thought of my scarf slipping the boy’s eyes rolling backwards a cloud like the white of a good dream.

Nardine Taleb