The Sugar from Fruit, I.

I like men, too.

But the wisp and tang of a woman's voice when she teases me requires a giggle and quip.

I like men, too.

But it was a woman who first made light of my sunspots and showed me the medicines for it.

I like men, too.

But it was a fully formed breast that I laid my palm over to ask if she felt comfortable.

And when I die, I want a woman to bury me with the hands

That rubbed my lower back every month in exactly the cramping dimples,

That pointed to her own body with the promise to carry the child if we ever wanted that life,

That borrowed my shirts and my shoes and my bralettes to bring a piece of me as she goes,

That took turns painting nails with me (and she kissed my forehead when I crouched down to coat her pinky),

That caught the sugar of me on her fingers and licked it clean as if to say yes I love you and there is no part of you that disgusts me or makes me afraid.

I like men, too.

But it was a woman I pressed into myself,

And I carried her in me like oxygen and nutrients.

And it will be a woman in the end,

As if to say once ego dies, I only want to be understood.

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