denial and the truth of the heart

likes to pretend the shimmers
in her stomach are just glitter,
not how she looks at him, eyes
in love and mouth in want
of water, moisture, lip gloss,
something wet. like how her
shirt clings and opens, black
bra peeking out, accidentally
his slave; head falls into open
space, into the questionable
capacity of knowing what she
can have, what she must keep
away at all costs (his hair, soft
and brown and aching for her
hands to be all in it, touching),
how she'll continue to cleave
her way into his presence,
appearing in his wet dreams,
while he returns her the favor.
when her tongue assuages,
massages the temporary dry
from her lips, she lets a sigh
out and admits to herself,
the shimmers are butterflies.