I sat down today and thought of a face—
with kind curves and welcoming eyes,
with a smile that could illuminate a space,
and warm the chilled voids betwixt thighs.

So I snatched up a pen and scribbled like mad,
an articulate letter on said visage so divine—
pages upon pages of marvelous musings—
hunger dripping off of each line.

Then my hands finished working, my fingers at rest,
observing my mess of inked letters and blots.
One simple message derived from it all:

**“You’re in my inappropriate thoughts.”

Right now, I want to
headbutt you in the wiener,
smile, and walk away.

Brick building my wall,
Remove one, you put it back.
Unprosperous me.

Does not include my
ovaries (unlike some girls).  
Please don't compare me.

Never aspired to be
some kind of untouched, blank wall—
plain, pale, and ******.

I think of artists’
hands on a living canvas—
and I get giddy.

These naked inches
hand-painted in poetry
by steady fingers.

Play me some Otis
as he sinks that ink for keeps.
Suddenly, I'm art.

This is fact:
The pig is a filthy animal.
Stewing in a self-created defecation so foul,
the stench will turn your stomach
and stick to your clean, human skin for hours.

Now consider:
A sow's ****** can last up to 30 minutes.

The conclusion:
Filthy sounds good to me.

To be the object
of someone's fresh jealousy
seems so delicious.

When a colleague's name
could suit that of a **** star's,
smirks are on the house.

With a single breath,
I set you free one thousand times—
dancing in every direction.
An untouched fate,
with nothing to call you back home.

I'm the kind of girl
who converts heartache into
premium whoop ***.

Start with a tin box guitar—
plucking tortured notes like
he’s known this kind of agony all his life.
Stretching bluesy licks
that bend and overlap—
braiding every bunch of heart strings.
We listen.
Tune into something that seems to be
cooing fluently in a language
only the involuntary celibate can speak.

No, we’re not getting any.
But at least we get this.

Out of wine.
So alone in my white girl pain.

No cure for a ***** mind.
Ain't that a shame.