the audacity of him, to think he created you.
they take the credit for billions of women, and we let them.
observe, the kind of girl who puts perfume on the backs of her knees-
she’ll be down on them soon, might as well decorate
the debauched air with lavender, coriander, her disgraced musk-
she is the model for a woman’s paradox.
“cross your legs at the ankles, say please and thank you, remember your place-
*****.”
see? how ladylike, that gorgeous face. a photo-finish face.
try to finish on her face.
a photo-finish face, take a photo when you finish on her face.
take a photo while she tries to blink you out of her eyes.
admire how tightly her lips are pressed together, she will not speak until spoken to.
unzip her teeth, open her mouth-
she will remain silent. all you were doing was opening another hole.
these girls are foldable, flexible, fuckable
they are stored inside suit pockets of
businessmen in the business of selling madonnas and Magdalenes
trading our innocence like stock options
each curve and soft voice, dumbed-down giggles and blank eyes as selling points
put together each little girl, she will be a new share in his corporation.
why do you let yourself believe that you should smile pretty
when auctioned off,
why should you be sold?
we allow men to rent us, borrow,
they shower us with trinkets,
things that are not truly ours. they feed us glitter until we become
as insubstantial as sparkles,
they tell you we are beautiful when we are owned.
stop having *** only in the dark
because you are worried that, like him,
the light will not touch you with love,
and you avoid fluorescent bulbs- do not risk cheapening the look of your skin.
chemical glows can be unflattering, you will wash out, the lines of your body will be harsh
you are reminded that your skin is full of chemicals too,
you worry that you will taste like acid and that he will spit you out.
you worry that he will see your naked body glow, and that he will not love you for it
so you close curtains. stack blankets. hide from scrutiny.
pull up your skirt-
“do what you came for and leave, please.”
apologize as soon as you say it.
it is out of line for you to make requests.
knowing that, step out of line.
refract, be prismatic
allow yourself to be illuminated,
reflect, do not feel guilty if you bleach his sight
if you are too much for him, do not reduce your brilliance
reflect.
what makes you think that you could possibly be
deflowered? who put this vicious vocabulary around your virginity?
boys are not lawnmowers, boys are not shears
you’re floral with or without them.
you do not have to grow in someone else’s garden
you can stretch your roots through miles of earth
you do not have to offer up your entirety to his touch.
you do not have to twist toward his artificial sunlight to flourish
you do not have to sit alone and anxiously polish your petals
you do not have to cry because your stem is blotched
remember your power- the ones who do not handle with care
are not your concern anymore- allow them
to be speared and suspended on your thorns.
display them like trophies
like they tried to display you
remember the venus flytrap is named for the goddess of love
and it eats its victims alive.