Sensual mouths trace the contours of necks,
hands drift toward forbidden territories
known only in darkness.

Two bodies meet,
crossing a boundary
countless others have crossed before—
a choreography of heat and hunger.

The verbs, the descriptions,
the language of desire
slither through my veins
like pale worms,
unraveling me from the inside
until I want to flee my own flesh.

Then come the rehearsed farewells:
“We want different things.”
“You can’t give me what I need.”

And the casual cruelties of others:
“You’ve never touched yourself?”
“That must be a medical issue.”
“That’s just not normal.”

What makes lust so contagious?
The hunger of others spreads like an epidemic—
yet somehow,
I remain immune.

Sex will always be
the film I’ll never buy a ticket for—
the one with lines around the block,
every showing sold out.

But I’ll be content walking away,
popcorn in hand,
a bag of Skittles tucked beneath my arm,
and a heart content
to live outside the script.