Khadijah Queen


ask a woman who has had her nipple bitten off if she liked it. if she squirmed & moaned as suck became cut, tongue became incisor, all the while pressing her belly against a hard and perfect chest. ask her if she was so drunk she couldn't feel the slice, could only hear him tell her not to move —

ask her if, when she noticed the pain, she looked at it: hinged areola dangling, bleeding. ask her what she told him: you bit off my nipple, she says. thought you liked it, he says, so I kept going. ask if she searches her purse for a band-aid & finds it —

ask if she cleans the wound, realigns the nipple, covers it, dresses ever so carefully in the hotel toilet. ask her if she then goes to him, sits on his lap, tells him to take her home. ask if she hums through the ride, the next evening's meal. ask her: if even after it heals, she finds those same white teeth irresistible.