i love
grapefruit
the sorbet blush circling
the shy spiral of downy navels
those cherubic dimples
that soft, round scent
reminds of distant summers.
grapefruits look a lot like me
on the days i feel orange
and my chest too supple
for rope-play.
i look down at the soft down
of my navel
and peel back hard mesocarp
to let the femme out
round and rosy
smooth to the touch
thick-skinned beauty
with a corkscrew rind
and a sunset’s subtle shine.
the femme in me wears natural tones
they languish roundly, unafraid of
curves and lumps
they are squishy and tropical
wet, wild, plump and pulpy,
wide-eyed and long-lashed
throwing their great hips out in greater circles.
on the days i feel orange
the femme in me lolls their head back
grips me with nails painted like petiolus
and kisses love songs into my open mouth.
the femme in me
knows a quiet hermitude
they are at peace in my skin
even in small, misshapen pieces.
the femme and me
smoke hookah and masturbate
on egg-shaped beanbag chairs,
they watch my slow drift
into petalled oblivion
they hold my hand
as i come.
the femme and me
ripen with odd pacing
not bad, not wrong, just
odd.
they soothe my bad intentions
and trim my boughs;
they bloom, i carefully
lean down to take them
all in.
the femme hooks scaffolds to my limbs
tells me, “i’m going to make a home of you,”
and sets about picking out the fine china.
they break mother’s dishes and super glue
them back together in new and interesting
shapes:
this one a knife, that one a double-sided dildo,
this one a cornucopia to keep my heart in.
(the femme in me is soft without being gentle.)
(the femme in me is tough as nails.)
the femme in me sketches my organs
into blueprints, every point of their immaculate
nails a pencil’s simpering lip.
my body becomes a million things on paper:
a spindling forest, a viking’s ship, a tarot deck,
two wolves running, a well made bed,
a reading nook.
each one they secret away to its own room,
shut but not locked behind tapestry doors.
the femme in me makes their bed last
two doors down from mine
close enough for me to reach them,
far enough to give my flux its space.
the femme in me glows faintly at dusk
brown skinned and sprinkled with inklings,
mouth peeled and fragrant,
tongue gone bloodorange with satisfaction.
the femme in me hums below my skin at all times
they play games on their phone and wait for me to
invite them out for dinner. i do not always call,
and i never call as often as i should,
but when i do
they come to me softly,
round and warm,
their skin tasting strongly
of grapefruit.
————
Hafsa Musa is a young black nonbinary writer, blogger, activist, and poet currently living in the American Midwest. They are a student majoring in Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies and English. They run a professional blog at merqueerial.com and a writing Tumblr atmythae.tumblr.com.
THE FEM 