POEM: bunkbed
A dirty (self)love poem for 28th March 2025
Until our mothers die
we won’t talk about the sex
so feral
we came backwards,
transported—teenaged,
in the sticky-fingered
bunkbed
(don’t wake your sister)
tipping the gasp
into our own mouths,
grabbing our own wet hands
to say: Here. This
is how you do it.