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My Mother's Nipples I think of them pressed against the wiry hair of my father's chest, her breath hot as smoke against his neck, tongue licking in teasing thrusts. He grabs each taut nipple and squeezes those raised eyes of pink flesh that taste of salt and sunflowers. Her nipples tingle like bare feet walking on wet grass. I think of him touching her flesh, a soft canvas I once held in my puckered mouth, his tongue dancing over the same delicate skin. I want to push them apart, detach these heaving bodies that drip my name in their sweat, stop him from wanting her. Seeing myself in their glazed bodies, I want her to hate him.
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