When you look at a map, things look different.
We don't seem so far   a  p  a  r  t.
Just a stretch of highway, w
                                                 i
                                                   n
                                                d
                                                  i
                                                     n
                                                  g

                                               a
                                               l
                                               o
                                               n
                                               g,
The.distance.between.two.d.o.t.s.
                                           over
It would take me a little         a tank
Of       gas       to       get       to       where      you      are.
We're (four-fifty-four), and I've done the math,
My baby reaches -four-fifty- on the dot.

So here's to you,
here's to me,
here's to everything we wanted to be.
In a world of the not-good-enoughs,
the half-remembered-maybes,
maybe we can be enough,

you and me.

Hips don't help
when I'm hightailing home
hurrying...

Times like these, I'd rather be asexual.

I see shadows slink-scurrying
slithering slyly
sneering...

I hate your ability to intimidate.

I want to turn toward and
take on your trash
toughly...

But there's five of you and one of me. And my hands are small.

No matter the mothering moralists
who match me to men
meaningfully...

I am a woman, and I am still afraid.

Self-defense can only go so far...
and my hips don't help.