My Miracle

If I’m on my knees or on my back it’s not because of the Patriarchy.
And it’s not because I love you.
It’s because in my world nothing is drowning me or grabbing me by the throat except when I allow it.
I may be fair-haired or black — whatever I choose to be.
I may wear nothing or beads or spikes.
Kissing is always an option but sometimes I’d rather not say the same things that you say which are always what you want to hear.
Sometimes you’re just meat, love.
Amour.

Today I wear a smile and the sun is out, bleaching my hair a faithful yellow.
And today I’m not hiding at my girlfriend’s house or at my boyfriend’s house.
I am with you and you’re triumphant.
Groan a little even.
I keep doing this because it’s my way.
It’s my miracle and you do help save me from my self.
A little bit.
It’s complicated, this overanhour loving.
I could be making some dollars but instead, I’m taking your best.
A taste of my whitehot fang sends you over the edge.

Buy this girl some earrings.
I look so naked without them.
Drums.
Buy me some drums to bang on.
To just close my eyes and bang on.
Amour.

Hubby.
Can I still call you that?
It’s because it’s been so long since I let you in my door.
And again it was only a matter of convenience, not compliance.
I’m dancing.
Spinning.
Forgetting but never forgiving.
That time when we were young and you painted my face with your oohs and ahs.
Suck on this revolution.
Amour.
Disco.

I’m dancing.
Are you surprised?
You can’t beat a girl, doll.
You can’t beat a girl.