when the party is over,
we stumble home like drunken toddlers
stopping for milkshakes on the way.
that we should stop by my house
instead of parting. I do not know your middle name
but I agree anyway. I do not know the day
you were born, or how you like your coffee.
I do not know how your skin tastes,
but I am willing to learn.
it is small talk on the sidewalk,
touching on my porch steps,
And then, it is my bed,
and in the dark I can pretend you are
someone you aren’t. It is wet. I am shaking
trying to feel something
beyond my body. I do not feel small here.
I feel fear. I feel limbs bent back
by childhood debt. Death trap.
I feel flesh, blurred breath,
I feel forcing myself to moan
when you touch my breasts.
My friends say that this is the best
it gets. I feel lips against hips
and broken wrists.
And it’s over.
I put a sweater on. I ask you to leave.
And now I am drunk,
and pleading with a god - I do not know
where you were born. I do not know
if you know that I am more than
a pretty face and small hands and a waste
of precious space. I do not know
if I will see you again, or if I want to.
The milkshake is a puddle on my floor.
I hear the door slam
and your car pull out of my driveway.
I am alone again,
worried you did not think I was slim
enough, worried I am not tough,
worrying I will never be touched tenderly
by another man.
I pull out strands of my hair.
I wonder what parts of me
you have taken.
mermaids don’t have thigh gaps but they can still lure men to their deaths
"I want to be with you,
it is as simple,
and as complicated as that."
"if feminists want equality does this mean we can punch women now?"
go ahead chicken shit punch me in the fucking face. i will shove your entire upper body into your own ass and make you fuck yourself from the inside out