She was standing in line
a blank slate, a riddle
so stone-faced,
and brittle
like shadows in brine
with unspeaking eyes
and lips, firmly shut
her skin did the talking
it was quietly raving
I might even say
it was violent,
this craving
for sin
when skin spoke to skin
it kept saying
just touch me,
I'm yours
and don't you
be saintly,
I'm harlots, and whores
don't judge me for this
I felt what I felt
but I missed
that some potion,
or curse
threw it all
in reverse
it was my skin,
not hers