Widow's Fire
I reclaimed my body— The Mohawk, a ritual of defiance, re-crowning. Looking in the mirror I see not softness but something striking. Not beautiful despite the grief, but because of it. Chaotic, electric, and hollow. Touch didn’t fill the absence. It amplified it. Was I cheating on his memory or honoring my life? Did my body betray him when it refused to die?
Resurrected by desire— my survival depended on it. With a numb eternity ahead my body began to awaken before my heart was ready. Sunlight hit my bedsheets with shame hovering like an obscene shadow. Too warm, too alive. A hunger I didn’t want. When you placed your hand on the small of my back— the heat spread quickly A switch was flipped-- the warm, wet electric yearning... The sacral chakra stirring large, strong fingers linger Slip down to rest on my hip My breath comes short and sharp And I worry everyone can tell— Can see the glazed look in my eyes My flushed cheeks My parted lips. A clear sign of desire. I have to excuse myself, change my underwear because of my widow’s fire.
🖤🌌