men touch me like auctioneers-- with moist, fleshy hands sweating for a bite, grazing my scars with excuses, ******* the succulents on the coffee table all under the rug with their dusty presumptions, hawking beneath the skylight with a hunger for the bedroom seventyfiveeightyeightyfive
(c) Brooke Otto 2015
i hope this poem sounds as gross as I feel about this