I spent years
counting the silhouette
lines of my cell
on the wall
and twirling,
perfecting a

repeat myself daily
to the bricks.
wear a bullseye blouse–
sheer, the outline
of the areola hinting at
desire or spit.
I’m invisible in doses.
(when the maiden turns mother).
car followed me
the other night and the others,
yelling something about my legs
(when the mother is hungry).
tiny shorts.
my massage therapist placed
his dick on my hand
tiny breaths.

(any complaint from the woman).

being forced to touch a guys dick
while im bent over puking;
that memory always comes back
second, and so does
being fucked without
“literally any consent.”
is the way I say it to him.

(any affirmation that doesn’t start with yes)
(can no be an affirmation?)
when it affirms your rejection of men).

I have persistent panic.
the words histrionic
when I finally move to speak.
why are you so emotional?

my dad is dead.
my brother is dead.

my house is full of mold,
squishy walls–no one
will fix the plumbing because of
this and  the pets all  had tumors.
my mom
doesn’t remember the time we
watched the moon dance,
turn brown
or the word for channel.

\he wants to know that I’m not faking it.
my first memory was me
being forced
to try on outfits for some guy 

until  he patted my day bed,
bent me over.
raped me.
he waves his hand
curtly: that’s why
you’re so sexual
as if I have never existed
without the shadow outline
of men surrounding me,
stone and unresponsive
like bars
to a cell. 

and don’t overthink
my outfits because
sometimes I wear head
to toe sweats,
bare face,
hair freshly bladed
so there’s nothing
to grab.


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