Do you know who I am
besides being the cute, shy Filipina
with long straight black hair
and a size zero body?
Do you know who I am
where assumptions shouldn’t take precedent
over my gender, culture, and identity
even after I’ve practiced my passion skills
on your body one night
and you unawares
couldn’t even marvel at my art?
Do you know who I am
as you make offensive remarks
that burn like smoldering cigarettes
and I try not to taste the nicotine
under your tongue
like you have years of pain
and hiding?
I secretly resign
with sighs at night
and a heavy mind with
too many sheep to count
and you –
can you survive on passion
out of your reach
with nothing but a memory
when I softly kissed your body to
where your warm blood gathers
and I had you pinned
with my small arms
kissing your lashes
your chin
your Adam’s Apple
biting your ribs
your stomach
just hard enough leaving teeth marks?
Do you get me?
“Get” – the verb
carousing in my brain
to understand, comprehend, grasp
see, fathom, follow
perceive, unravel, decipher
the great word with an elusive definition
when the rule remains: you can’t touch me
yet.
