Sucking smiles from strangers, I sneer at dicks,
zapping their strength with my bitterness. If
they had never singed my heart, I would be
honey-melon all the time, but they did. And I
am not. I love the curve of my body in bed,
simultaneously proud and sad at the lack of hands.
It’s time for my words to be hammers: you can’t
touch this, because someone else didn’t want it.
I have been muted by whiskey for seventeen days;
you make me want a seventeen-year-old; I can control
him. I can control them. I didn’t want to control you.
The irony clinks against the glass of a lesson I needed to learn.
I’d rather drink you straight. I am so transparent but still
you couldn’t see me. I should have seduced you.
I would have seduced you except for the fact that
you didn’t want to be seduced.