All insipidly  wavy inside of me

like the texture of my hair 

yet you reach for it.

Some songs can bring me 

to the edge of the sea

ready to plunge, 

others suck my soul bare

Pain pulling each string

piece by piece.

 

Most women love to gas up, pile in the bags

pretend they are content

and read Fifty Shades as if it’s a masterpiece. 

I do roll my eyes, and admit I am

a literary snob. Don’t hug

me unless you are ready for the

studded belt. Don’t kiss me 

either, my lipstick stains. Don’t emoji 

me, I’m not sold on it. But thank you

for the laughter,

as much as you take

away me essence

you give it back in abundance

I am so topsy-turvy in love

regardless of what I write

or how clever you think I am

you never need to read it. Pretend

I do not write. Let me smoke and 

drink wine discussing art and all 

I look forward to, nothing I’ve left

unscathed. Rumors unfurled,

denying everything but the way the 

smoke exhales

I love it when you love me

for myself and nothing else

you hate me so passionately

it is what I need. Both in one 

day, in one sentence. You only 

know. 

it has kept me invincible

to men who try to sneak in

between my monologues.

 

 

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