Apparently
men can gather bed notches and
this elevates them socially
whilst women of the same history
are sluts plain and simple
therefore
I am a whore
not because you tell me so
or for any notches or black books
but for the raspy feather in my chest
when it tickles
I gather up my fancy
and I imagine
all the rides I’ve taken
which is as far as I go today
given my propensity for not coming back
but there was a time
I let four boys into my room
not all at once or even
in the same afternoon
they were as different as
the rules for men and women
one I found ugly and angular
his penis was a sharp hungry thing
that burned the desire out of me
another was vain and glorious
a cheshire cat apt to lap his own cream
his was large and unwieldly and
whatever they say about size isn’t really true
it’s about what you can do with what you got
the third had a penchant for drugs
and redheads and he had the best music collection
and the prettiest member
but I will when I die
think on the fourth most of all
short and a little fat with a tiny prick
that boy knew the secrets to loving
and we climbed all night
on divine ladders to heaven
where I briefly told him I loved him
and he bruised my womb
with his insistence I was his alone
which sadly I never was
by then my counterfiet heart
had been scattered like confetti
I was no more able to trust
than a painted lady selling her wares
It was the cheapened version of me
I let hook herself out on a line and dangle
you do that sometimes not for attention
but the disgust you have for yourself
and all the smut that got you to that point
and all the grubby fingers that wouldn’t quit
invading your right to peace
by then I had no feelings other than
roll another one, turn the record up
come here and let me suck
that pain away
it seemed the perfect solution aside
knowing the world would brand me a slag
concubine at best
but there is it
like the condom filled trash
stinking and real
though if you get stoned enough nothing
lasts long enough to peturb
including grateful boys who give their all
and in that five minutes of bliss
you learn a thing or two about transactions
how they salve the pain you never reveal
how being abused can make you turn around
and do the very same thing
though they’d never understand why
molested girls will open their legs to strangers
it’s one of those sad dichotomies
that’s also got a gender inequality label
for don’t you know it’s not always
piss and vinegar
makes a young man rut and rut?
we’re all carriers of some brand of pain
and those damaged souls
recognize each other
