My Thighs Used to be so Good to Me

I used to hold the belief

That my thighs would turn to liquid

The second I dragged my finger nail

Along them.

That once I did give in,

Something wonderful would happen;

Would welcome and usher me.

All it needed 

Was for me to fix its ache.

Usually I would ignore it,

Logic outruling the feelings.

Few times I would

Consider lightly tipping in my fingernail.

It grew ever stronger,

Feeling like an external fact

That could never be false.

So I believed in it.

Like one prays to a God they

Cannot see.

And only did my thighs feel this way,

Scars the medium through which

To prophesize.

So I dipped my nail nowhere else.

Its sermons called

Ever so loudly on hard days.

And the visions became beautiful.

All I needed was to break the barrier.

And I would see 

Whose lectures I mindlessly believed.

It grew more vivid.

That when I did draw blood,

My thighs would melt.

And I’d be drawing my fingers

Through a silky pool.

I wouldn’t need

The physical feeling of them anymore.

For after that euphoria I needn’t

Move forward.

I never consummated my belief,

I refuse to hold it anymore.

Sometimes I hear it begging,

Its voice is no longer sweet.

Still ever tempting,

Though I know:

That once I do split the seams,

There’s no sewing needle,

Twine, stitches, tape, glue or prayer,

That will ever undo the feeling 

Of my silky essence pouring out.