minefields

i don't dare him to take hibiscus from between my thighs, anymore. and i'm less of a cynic.

he says.

except on bad days, when the soft breeze won't cool my skin and my angles feel hard and clumsy. on days when my pinkness won't twirl the way it wants to. he admires the way i don't care what anybody thinks about who i am. I know who this girl is, even when she thinks she doesn't.

"i won that hard baby, you'll not take it from me"

and the italics are mine.

they drift, the little splotches of ire and rise with the heat of the bubbles in my bath, till they burst into a smile that is a little about heat, a little more about roots and a little less about you.

the smile is mine, too.