I started to write about this:
The rain, pouring like a waterfall. Me in the yard, wearing nothing but a red sweater, sodden and heavy, leaving one shoulder bare and me naked below the waist. You on the porch, dry hands on the wooden railing, unable to look away. I’m cold in the wet sweater, but I prefer to leave it on, being more exposed to you while wearing only it than I would be if I stood completely naked before you.
I am not a delicate porcelain doll, fragile and made of eggshell. Give me bruises on my arms, bites on my thighs. Put a map of your want onto me, written with your hands and your teeth, inked with your ache and iron need–the cartography of desire. Make the grass and mud our bed, and leave me wet and dirty and shaken and bent.
But I’m leaving my red sweater on.
Because giving you almost all of me makes you want me even more.
I stared to write that, but then you began to read over my shoulder.
And then your hands slipped beneath my red sweater.
And then I had to stop writing.