THE FEMME AND ME By Hafsa Musa

THE FEMME AND ME

i love
grapefruit

the sorbet blush circling the soft down of their navel
those wide-eyed dimples
that soft, round scent

grapefruits look a lot like me
on the days i feel orange

i look down at the soft down
of my navel
and peel back my skin
to let the femme out

round and rosy
smooth to the touch
thick-skinned beauty with a corkscrew rind
and a sunset’s subtle shine.

the femme in me wears natural tones
they languish roundly, they are not afraid of their curves and lumps
they are squishy and tropical
wet, wild
wide-eyed and long-lashed
throwing her great hips out in greater circles.

on the days i feel orange
the femme in me lolls their head back
grips me with nails painted like nebulae
and kisses love songs into my open mouth.
the femme in me
knows a quiet hermitude
they are at peace in my skin
even in small misshapen pieces.

the femme and me
smoke hookah and masturbate
on beanbag chairs,
they hold my hand
as i come.

the femme and me
ripen with odd pacing
not bad, not wrong, just
odd.

they soothe my bad intentions
and trim my boughs;
they bloom and i carefully
lean down to take them
all in.

the femme hooks scaffolds to my limbs
tells me, “i’m going to make a home of you,”
and sets about picking out the fine china.
they break mother’s dishes and super glue
them back together in new and interesting
shapes:
this one a knife, that one a double-sided dildo,
this one a cornucopia to keep my heart in.
(the femme in me is soft without being gentle.)
(the femme in me is tough as nails.)

the femme in me sketches my organs
into blueprints, every point of their immaculate
nails a pencil’s simpering lip.
my body becomes a million things on paper:
a spindling forest, a viking’s ship, a tarot deck,
two wolves running, a well-made bed,
a reading nook.
each one she secrets away to its own room,
shut but not locked behind tapestry doors.

the femme in me makes their bed last
two doors down from mine
close enough for me to reach them,
far enough to give my flux its space.

the femme in me glows faintly at dusk
brown skinned and sprinkled with inklings,
mouth peeled and fragrant,
tongue gone blood orange with satisfaction.

the femme in me hums below my skin at all times
they play games on their phone and wait for me to
invite them out for dinner. i do not always call,
and i never call as often as i should,
but when i do
she comes to me softly,
round and warm,
her skin tasting strongly

of

grapefruit.

By Hafsa Musa

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