I don’t want anyone

who wants


     the penetrable part of me

     for their pleasure. To me,


penises look like waterlogged slugs,

lethargic and listless, defeated,


     or daggers. a dumb gun

     whose bullets you dodge.


And girl parts resemble wounds, wet

flesh exposed, sometimes blood, unthreatening

soft spots of entry and exit.


                   Who will lick my wounds, want

                   to heal me? The privileges of masculinity


do not tend gently, for the most part.

Where did they learn it? To push

in everything they do, entitled

to get what they want

from you, manipulate your body


         pin your arm    behind your back

         until they get it


         and where did you learn

         to let them.


How do they know to push

their palms hard

between your shoulders, push you

down, probably they don’t mean

for you to take it personally

after all, what they’re doing

with their gun cocked

and penetrative, with your face pushed

away, no, what they’re doing,


       what they want

        isn’t about you


at all. I think you always knew.

I think you always suspected

there was something different

you could want


        something softer

        you could choose.









published in subTerrain