Oh medium garlic grilled chicken wings,
two short of a dozen.
You arrive with ranch—and an extra ranch
because the female bartender knows I am hungry
and I am not self-conscious.
I am ready for you, my petite poulets.
I rip into you feral, like a starving mother possum—
flesh, bone, weird little veins,
gnawing and *******
Sauce on my wrists, ranch under my nails,
fingers perfectly soiled in sticky perfection.
This is not a meal; it is a perimeter.
Men sense it. They stay back.
Protected by grease and tooth and bones,
I am in my bubble of tyranny.
Let them fear the licking of the fingers,
the ten ***** napkins piled on my plate,
the hot sauce in the corner of my mouth.
You, my wings—my snack, my shield
my mess, my sisters.
I curtsey to you and our beautiful courtship.
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 7:54 PM UTC
Oh medium garlic grilled chicken wings,
two short of a dozen.
You arrive with ranch—and an extra ranch
because the female bartender knows I am hungry
and I am not self-conscious.
I am ready for you, my petite poulets.
I rip into you feral, like a starving mother possum—
flesh, bone, weird little veins,
gnawing and *******
Sauce on my wrists, ranch under my nails,
fingers perfectly soiled in sticky perfection.
This is not a meal; it is a perimeter.
Men sense it. They stay back.
Protected by grease and tooth and bones,
I am in my bubble of tyranny.
Let them fear the licking of the fingers,
the ten ***** napkins piled on my plate,
the hot sauce in the corner of my mouth.
You, my wings—my snack, my shield
my mess, my sisters.
I curtsey to you and our beautiful courtship.
December 2025