If all you seek is a release for your testosterone and a hiding place for your hormones then leave me in peace, for I'd much rather wrap myself around the words of greater men like Bukowski, or Hemingway, or Poe, Wilde, Cummings or Nietzsche.
They'd write about the words that slip from my lips and the way in which they somehow all of a sudden take them back to their childhood when they were three years old again, standing in the kitchen doorway, observing the verbal missiles being shot during the bitter separation of the parents marriage.
They'd write about my eyes and the way they glisten with hope, brown orbs lit up like a fire, only to be dampened out again with realisation and truth and disappointment.
But, these boys, they don’t bother trying to find out exactly what, or who, I am. yet their concerns regarding me lie within more trivial areas.
They don’t know the map of green and blue that my veins depict. they don’t know the emotion that washes over me and grabs a choke of me, leaving me decomposed and gasping for breath. they don’t know the way the mechanics of my mind work. stop ******* disregarding my soul, my PERSON.
I am more than a body, i am more than a body, i am more than a body, i am more th-
in the words of Sylvia Plath, “kiss me and you will see how important i am.”