Their hunger for me invented me. Married couples message me after I become single, and start by saying they’ve always found me attractive. Like they discovered me, like I had never been.

                    All their FANTAZIES:
                    school gurl < < pony gurl < < Princess Leia Rapunzel braid bikini < <
                    alligator queen of the Nile < < doming while eating a sub-human
                    sandwich < < Eiffel-L’arc-De- Triomphe-Humpback-of-Notre -do-me < <
                    star-spangled naughty banner < < X-Files with ears and a tail < <
                    coughing Victorian lace while cuffed < < Kitty Jackie-O < <

                    FANTASAYY:
                    bisexual woman as conduit between two people < <  glass skyway
                    connecting riverbanks < <  dirt passage between two castle chambers < <
                    vital stem connects flower and bulb < <  pillar that holds up
                    the house where life takes place < < silent egg in the batter that sponges
                    the cake < <

Curiouser & Curiouser! These couples ask for holes where there are none! Me, a brunette gravitational pit. Spelunk my bitchy chasms. Prospect for pockets. Hunt for keyholes. Open. Open. Wider. Wider. Big enough so their relationship can fit inside me. Galaxy gaze. Wonderlanding. Drink me. Eat me. Paint my roses red. What they really ask for is my early death through opening new holes. Off with my head.

                    I have a FANTA-Z:
                    Someone asks how I feel at the end of a long day < <
                    A beloved reaches underneath a mess sheets to seek my hands, my face, in
                    the dark < <

Just now, a voice said, oversharing is giving away energy and keeping secrets is protecting it.

But I am not using protection in this poem.

If I open any wider, make any more holes, I will fall into myself and never climb out.

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Note: This poem previously appeared in Gulf Coast.