Magazines in Bathrooms

Soft; park your limbs. 

Let the perfect boy hold you.

His perfection belongs to you now.

Pull his hair through your fingers

One curl under duress,

At a time. 

Yes, perhaps his body is theirs,

Held amongst the diamonds,

A stomach drenched in something

Darker—brighter than shards 

of magazine light.

Past posed lips, his saliva, his spit 

The gentle inflammation of the gumline

Above his back teeth

You met once in a rush,

Past his positions and postures and looks,

Something fresh. 

A vibration from somewhere else tells you

What you know:

Blood draws quicker than judgement can pass. 

Soft; park your limbs. 

Let the perfect boy hold you. 

Rest your aches and bruises. 

Let him float where he wishes,

Be whatever he wants

To whatever you are,

Whatever that means,

anyway. 

Soft; park your limbs. 

Hold his hand. 

Something better lies elsewhere,

Along this road.

About The Author:

Saskia Reynolds can best be summed up by her love of three things: cats, tea and Mary Oliver's poetry. She is a published author, currently living in York, England.