'@Hereafter

He says that she’s unattractive, but the subtext is that he doesn’t like girls who

are more comfortable in their skin than he is

with his masculinity. He made me realize I can stop apologizing to the

mannequins I run into—stop slipping confession notes into the books

I read for whomever needs them after me. I don’t apologize to the boy who left

his gum between my knees, because my arteries continue

to pump and my feet fit into my shoes without him. The amassment of buildings

and bodies and dealmakers and white men tells me that I don’t

need to rip eyelashes out for wishes. I’ve learned that the squeaky wheel gets

taken away. The arbiter of wineries, golf clubs, mortgages,

window frames, casinos, finds that these are grasping at the ceiling, fingers

spread into spider webs. In this bottom-less wanting,

unnecessary roughness earns you a slap on the shoulder and an extra hour of

locker room talk. We learn to grab back (if sex happens before

you wanted it) with chemicals between our fingers. I burn my throat on oatmeal

and my skin turns to scales—My pages are dog-eared

from turning corners too soon. In this one hundred and forty character locale, I’ll

blast out a constant reminder that

this mimeograph heart won’t be stopping any time soon.