I set out this evening, head in the clouds
Watching streaked skies, smelling magnolias...
Then suddenly cut to the quick,
Clipped by you, anonymous sir.
Your ideals stab me like
Fat-filled needles to my flapjack glutes-
Lipids that would pad the smack
Of your slobbering, salacious lips
Your words fogging the orange-y pinks,
Dung beetles bombing my beloved trees.
And this is what I ruminate
When you open your mouth to speak, sir:
How can I be at once worthy of regard
And also worthy of reproach
And also worthy of your hand
Upon my "less than luscious ass?"
Am I not just me in cups of B
And 30 inches of slightly swayed hips?
Am I not just me with frizzy locks that curl and kink,
Unpolished nails chewed to the quick but sometimes left to grow?
Am I not just me: sister, daughter, friend
Not "whore" or "bitch" or "slut"
Am I not just me: voice in the void?
Not "daaayum" or "suga'" or "'xuse me, ho!"
I don't care to be your fantasies come to life, sir-
Nor a target on the clay-caked, potholed, glass-shattered sidewalk
That I tread, never knowing if (when) I snap
If you might slap back....
Your vinegar tongue is not fit
To address me by my Christian name...
That must be why instead you shout
"I'm talking to you, cunt!" as I walk away...
