You Won’t Listen, But…
Too many young daughters
offer their vaginal voodoo
hoping it will supply enough
blood to anchor a man.
Eager to trade in panties
dusted with baby powder
they sing the lullaby of
Easy on the chiseled end
of some man’s dick.
They all want love.
Forget that the story is inside
their fathers’ absence.
Tired lyrics fall from cracked eyes.
Each dust particle, the baby they
long for. Any man’s baby.
Hard to be queens at nineteen
when twenty-nine year old men
break them down from a distance.
Headless horsemen grinding their
needy bones into useless powder.
It’s the emptiness keeping them
afloat. Wrapping itself around
them like a life preserver.
They are painting themselves
into corners, standing in the
only white space left,
folding into themselves like
egg whites in a bowl of batter.
I want to carve out the bruised
fruit of their souls. Fill it
with lemongrass and peppermint.
I wish they would let me use my
sexy knives to gouge the hidden
strings that keep pulling them
back into the shadows.