You sit down with a pen and
expect words to flow out
effortlessly,
like butterflies exploding from your fingertips.
You expect them to be beautiful,
filled with crystals and blue eyes.
They come out like anvils, heavy and gray.
Devoid of emotion.
“Really Skinny” he says.
That’s how he likes his girls.
He says this to the size six,
ex-bulimic, who has been having a hard time
eating this week.
“really skinny”
And so, a sandwich a day becomes
enough.
Because if he wants “really skinny”
everyone else must too.
And if he doesn’t want you,
no one will.
He says he is unworthy of love-
incapable of being loved.
But, it is you he is describing.
It is you.
Because you are good for kissing
and you are good for licking.
You are good for cuddling,
particularly senza clothing.
You are good for rubbing backs
and running painted fingers through
hair.
You are good for passing time.
You are good for comforting.
You are good for fucking.
But you are not good for love.
You will never be good for love.
You don’t know how to be good for love
until it charges onto your doorstep
like a raging bull;
until it is intrusive and you have
no choice
but to be
good for love.
Then, you are only good for so long
Only until someone else is better.
And then, you are good for fucking.