Almost – Klaira Edwards

November 9, 2025

i gotta wonder—
think it over,
roll it between twitching fingers,
leaving stickiness in its wake.

you say things,
press them into my thin skin,
glued under your nails,
splayed over my tongue,
where they scratch across the ridged muscle.

“i can make you feel good.”

you say it in that way that makes me want to believe you,
warping my own body when i close my eyes—
so much so that i can imagine another skin over mine.
almost.

i ask if i can speak plainly.
you answer with blown-out pupils,
an open palm rising with each of my heavy breaths.

i don’t want you to.

i don’t want you to rest your weight on my aching hips,
as you pant over my bellybutton.

i don’t want you to hook your fingers
in my day-of-the-week underwear,
to know that i’m wearing wednesday on a monday.

i don’t want you to tear strained, breathless
noises out of me with your mouth.
i don’t want to know how soft it feels when i pull your hair,
the groan you let out on my spit-slicked skin.

i want to remember my name—
what it means to sleep,
to dream of other things,
to be alone, absentmindedly,
legs clenching and unclenching,
and not see your lips pull into that lopsided smile,
looking up at me through bent knees.

you laugh,
in that way you do,
that buries like a tick just to make me sweat—
that reminds me i can’t forget what better is,
no matter how far i let it sink
in my wet sponge mind.

and it boils.
white fog falling from watery eyes,
collecting in my collarbones,
little pools that you lap up greedily.

you tell me not to think—
like it’s easy,
like it’s something i could do for you.

and most days,
i wish it was that simple.

most days,
i offer you words instead,
ink stains on my blotched cheeks.

you take what you can get—
but you never stop wanting more.

i’d give it to you if i could.
i really would.