Tuesday, October 28, 2014

i think he found this

he hasn't written since he got off work

and we were really hitting it off.

that's all right. it makes me sad to think about everything

that he's one of maybe six guys who haven't already gotten creepy

he's said one thing i think is a little off, but that's really not an "off" comment

it's just that more than half the guys who say that they're real feminists

are not

but the rest really are--

and the ones who aren't can be sly:

it's the internet, motherfucker

i think he found my twitter feed

and i linked to this

and said i wanted to kill myself

and it's all actually true anyway

it's just that sometimes

he's waiting for me, that one

and sometimes

there are others, like the guy who lunged at me, halfway out of his car

but the sharp dressers, the Black men in their early 20s who have decided not to be wary of me

just that there is a bubble dividing them from me, and i get curiosity and sizing up, and reluctant props

and that's okay for now, i daren't smile at them just yet, they're not ready to let it off without a snarl, not them

they're too cool, too good pretending


for each other

they looked at him like he was an embarrassment, soiled white tee

bashed-in car

fat flapping out his rolled-down window

tee tucked in but starting to fold over the glass

so he slunk back in after



i have to choose

do i go where they prowl and eye me, and wonder what the fuck i'm doing there

and i'm just like, dudes, no, please, just, hi back?

the kids are unpredictable but most are sweeter than anything

even the preteen boys show me the most courteous of manners

their faces twisted with distrust

sometimes a smile

to get my groceries

and get home without dying


do i risk being pulled down a 30-foot-deep staircase in a quarter-mile expanse of woods by

shifty-eyed "tom"

caterpillar eyebrows and neanderthal face

red sweater

with three hiding places for me now, and a friend on speed dial

for dragging me through the woods

at the bus stop

to get my groceries

and get home without dying

no one will ever love me again, not with this

not if i explain about the men on the bus who explode and want to hit me

when i say no

you may not have my number

who look at me like i have just strangled them and they need to throttle me back

who make me furious, a white-hot fury, but the white

is fear

No comments:

Post a Comment