Invisible Monster

I don’t know what to do with

myself anymore.

Every time some dumb slut

of a friend gropes my ass

and smuggles me into the

kind of cheap bar an alcoholic

would go to die,

my body begins the slow act

of disappearing into itself.

Nobody can smell

the shame or anything–

it just sinks its teeth into

the places no human being

can publicly unravel.

Like my clit. Or the spot

my boyfriend rams his

finger into when he wants

to see what a woman looks

like when she finally gives up

on the big, stupid myth of

being untouchable.

If I was born with balls

instead of breasts–

if I had a dick and fists

and a brain that

knew how to sort out

anything more complex than

than who you fucked last night,

I would have cut this whole

ugly business out of

my life forever.

Maybe I can torch my

organs or whatever–

pawn a lighter,

burn the invisible

monsters of the flesh.

Too many girls here

have turned turned

inwards to avoid the

threat of a knife

in the throat,

and nothing, not

even death, will

ever be more useless

than womanhood.

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