You can’t handle these curves,
these curves I possess:

Not the type to be seen
or emphasized by her dress.
Not the kind you often use –
to objectify, when she’s blessed,
demoralize, if she’s less –
but deeper,
more alive.

The gyri wind.
Beneath, colors intertwine.
Ideas, big dreams, dance in its skies,
in the world that is mine,
painted across the horizons
with no limits, no lines.

The curves of my mind, not square.
Although it’s no box, I still think outside.
Intangible:

Not the type you can grab,
slap, snicker at.
Too deep for your reach,
too quick to catch.
My wit weaves,
my creativity creates,
dancing circles around your immobility,
inability to expand.

What’s inside:
a treasure to behold, to discover,
so alive.
What’s inside is this light,
but you’re too dim to realize,
to see beyond what is capable of your eyes.

These curves:
they ignite
the dimple of my smile,
to the curves of my tongue,
to that of my lips.
Beyond hips, beyond skin,
behind this grin.

To see these curves,
these curves I possess:

undress this fire that inspires the rest.

My mind: unwind,
but first, realize,
before it slips by.