Date a writer. We know an audience and can text youre way to an orgasmic finish.
I need to remind myself that I am not a classical nude oil painting.
My curves will last longer than the fading pigments and tearing canvas.
More complex wars have been fought inside me than any historian can
feasibly weave a tale of.
And I’m not obligated to be a romantic silhouette,
to smile and fill the warm air with compliments I don’t mean.
I am sincere and I will tell you when your metaphors are cliche,
because I expect to be treated like the fucking Queen of England.
I do not want the mouth you kiss your mother with.
I am worthy of the mouth with lips the color of raspberries,
releasing venom when they bleed, and when I bite, I seal my own fate.
I am more than the outline their eyes trace around my body,
if they don’t have the nerve to step off the streets to understand my
mind, they don’t deserve to paint me how they please.
I am more than what they see, I am every piece whole, defined by the
vivid blues in the veins of my heart.