by: Jasmine Sealy
It is lust, attraction and longing.
It is self- esteem and ego.
It is she likes it when he makes her jealous but when she feels safe she no longer wants him.
It is daddy issues and Oedipus complexes and Freudian cigars.
It is my bad day and your one beer too many.
It is terrible but I’m scared to tell him.
It is your first time and her third time and his fifth time this week and my last time with you again.
It is the tick-tock of the biological clock.
It is every one’s doing it.
It is if you cheat on me you’re better off just leaving because I will never trust you again and my passive aggressive insecurities will eat away at us until we are living in nothing but a shell of our former selves, like scared snails.
It is twenty years of slow death, body eating away at itself. It is hours passed in waiting rooms, nails bitten to stubs.
It is light.
It is complete and total emptiness.
It is only fucking white boys because her mother told her she wants grand babies with ‘good’ hair.
It is life.
It is so incredibly small and fragile in his hands and he will fight to the death to keep it safe.
It is guilt.
It is a fullness he didn’t know he was missing until the first time he felt another man inside him.
It is he’ll break up with me if I don’t.
It is you trying to count the circle of freckles around my elbow.
It is there was nothing good on tv.
It is revenge.
It is everything I hate about myself manifested in the silhouette of his thrusting body above me while I bite my lip and pray he finishes fast.
It is love.
It is grasping at straws.
It is drowning.
It is the day spent at work, one hand beneath the desk, searching for the same spot she found last night and trying to understand how her whole being could crave one sensation so achingly.
It is hate.
It is the scratching of her father’s beard against her cheek that hurts almost as much what he is doing to her again.
It is locker rooms and the average size is a myth.
It is he is looking for someone who smells like she did and is wondering if she would suspect anything if he bought her the same perfume.
It is loss.
It is worrying about the way her stomach rolls when he throws her legs over his shoulders.
It is pain.
It is talking the whole time, laughing as their bodies play saxophone, skin squelching against skin, stopping halfway through because he notices a strange lump on her left breast.
It is your hand across my lower back afterwards, writing secret messages with your fingertips, telling me I’m beautiful.
It is I’m beautiful.
It is I secretly want him to talk dirty but I’m too nervous to ask.
It is jealous exes and jealous best friends and jealous strangers and jealous, jealous, jealous, jealous, jealous.
It is I’m ugly.
It is I can’t get off from penetration and that makes me feel like less of a woman.
It is a new car, rent paid, gold ring.
It is keeping the grey out of his hair.
It is regret.
It is one time.
It is last night.
It is not bad.
It is seven billion people all make the same face.
It is unlike anything else.
But it is just sex.