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.

Sunshine–waterfalls.

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.

 




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