The Scar From Her Past by David Hensley

She was young and beautiful

a postgraduate visitor

fresh from Nigeria

I was bold and political

a postmodern clerk

from Calderstones Park

..

We talked

philosophical shite

and laughed, late into the night

 ..

We held hands as if hands were going out of fashion,

at first furtively, later longingly

palming passionately

 ..

Towards morning

we lay

together

naked and breathless

 ..

I want you

so much

she murmured

I want you too

 ..

I’m sorry she said

I can’t

That’s OK

I lied

 ..

Touch me

she asked

my tender fingertips

tiptoed

towards her warm wet womanhood

 ..

But it wasn’t there

just a hard cruel scar

 ..

It was cutting, a childhood

ceremony

she confessed

as if she had some responsibility

for her disfigurement

we cuddled

and cried until dawn

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