You are unintentionally hilarious.
You think you are a male hero,
hitting all that, all the while unaware
that one day it will hit back.
You say you know me.
All you saw was scraps;
of my shadow that were
soaking up chemistry
without giving back.
You think it’s about
the pictures. You would
analyse my body, amused
at my awkwardness. You
used it, fused us together until
your mag-pie eyes got bored.
I couldn’t fight you.
I was rooted down,
scared to open the door
dressed in nothing but lingerie.
Now you don’t think I’m that kind of woman.
Honey, it’s just that you didn’t deserve it.
I am relieved that I retained the secret of my corset.
You didn’t deserve any of my shinier parts:
my undropped gaze,
me on top,
quick words with which to whip you,
whispering dirty nothings in smoky clubs,
the spark of my temper ignited by pride.
You saw none of that.
Yesterday men kept kissing my hand
just to say hello. I stretched,
I shimmered, I purred for them,
in ways I never did for you.
I hope that hurts you one day:
you’re the only man boy
that couldn’t bring out
the woman in me.