I am her *******, humble, soft, worn thin,
A silent witness to her hidden life.
I’ve known her body’s secrets, close and deep,
A second skin, I clung to flesh and bone.
I have tasted her sins, the bitter proof,
Felt the deep tremor, held the quake of thighs,
A vessel for unspoken, urgent needs,
The silent echoes of a hurried touch.
I have worn scents of nights that would shame saints,
Of raw desires and whispers in the dark,
The heavy perfume of a world unseen.
Each stain a story, etched into my cloth.
Now, press me closely to your patient ear,
And I will speak what only I have known.
My fabric holds the truth, a living scroll.
No hidden part of her escapes my grasp.
I will name every man, each grasping hand,
Every woman too, whose waiting lips did part,
And the precise hour, when they broke her open,
To spill her secrets, whispered in the night.
I hold the ledger of her pleasure, pain,
The hidden history within my weave,
and the very hour when her heart opened wide.
