Portal for Writers and Poets in South Africa
She’s almost three decades old;
Believes almost anything she’s told.
She pays no attention to what’s inside her;
But only reflects on what’s denied her.
She always fiddles with her shoes,
When she thinks she has something to lose.
She hates school, but loves education,
And hopes to one day reach her destination.
He invited me on a Wednesday afternoon,
To his house.
He invited me that Wednesday afternoon,
To his room.
He invited me very leisurely,
To sit on his bed;
He invited me very tenderly,
To kiss his mouth,
           WE HEAR NOISES FROM DOWNSTAIRS.
He invited me very grudgingly,
To say hi to his mom,
She revealed that he’d made his bed because of me,
She thanked me.
A FEW MOMENTS LATER,
WE HEAR HER LEAVE THE HOUSE.
THE BEDROOM DOOR CLOSES ONCE MORE.
He invited me to lay on his labour, where our mouths merged;
The dictators of our speech were
Harmonizing yet battling, licking yet triumphing.
I spontaneously took off my shirt, my bra, my belt, my jeans;
With a tiny, triangle patch left to guard my virtue,
He invited me to unbutton his button down and unzip his jeans.
That Wednesday afternoon,
I saw things, he saw things, we felt things, but then
We stopped things, before they went any further.
 We hadn’t even expected ourselves to go
As far as we did that Wednesday afternoon.
Although, shortly after, when I was about to go home,
 He pecked my lips with promise.
