The day begins with missing a thirty three;
I’m trying to find reasons to breathe a little less fast.
I shadow it back home; I create curves on my face with
laughter handled by Hope. Sometimes I think she is all I need.
Later, I down vodka; thirsty for oblivion. It doesn’t work.
Men stare at me.
They stare at me on trains, in the street, turning their heads in cars.
You do not stare at me.
I am aware of this.
The irony stings.
I tell everyone that I’m going to dance through this.
Every song is a love song.
I pray for Beyonce.
Do you have any idea how many hands grab at me every night?
Oh look, she seems difficult; let’s like her. And they do.
I wasn’t difficult for you. I would have challenged you in other ways,
I tried to keep the drama to a minimum
and I ended up turning off the thermostat.
I didn’t mean to.
I realised this today,
ignoring men with greedy eyes,
wondering when they would get a woman like me.
I realised this today:
I fucked up.
I let my fear eradicate my spice.
If you’d stayed a little bit longer,
you would have tasted me
I should have enticed you to stay
I know this is right.
(Even though I acted left.)