In the dark,
Where sinners and hedonists go to play,
That’s where I find my wanting.
I wish I could find it in the sun, that the world’s arms were
open to a body like mine. Alas,
I’m only a woman when the lights are off.
My sex lives and dies under the stars, in muffled moans and
possessive whispers.
In the mornings, it returns to its confines,
acceptance hinged on tacit asexuality.
I’m only a woman without desire,
Without reminder of my wanting.
Lest I be seen as more than novelty,
sexuality forcing my dimension to the foreground.
Lest I be seen as a predator, an inhuman malevolence,
more man than woman.
In the witching hour, my wants and dreams are breathed into life.
I dance under covers with strangers, steal kisses with ghosts,
and unfurled desire can finally sing.
I’m only a woman when the lights are off,
A sexless automaton under the morning sun.