Self-attentive

The folds of my skin are no longer bewitching,
there for the mercy of man,
I tan them soft and duck
beneath eiderdown,
my own black fur
gentle in my hands,
I am pluck and finger
and twitching -
savoury salt and light white,
the smell of vanilla in fullness,
the smell of a woman at night,
I am heat in the heft of vein energy,
reckless vibration and play,
mirrors wrapped into bearing,
minutes wrapped into flesh.
I am whole and quiversome and feminine
unveiled as a delight unto myself,
pleasure in the flame of a lone one
that burns in the breath of herself.