Mentally,
I was the kind of slut
that collected fantasies like trophies,
lining them up on a shelf of daydreams
and polishing each one with
"what if" and "could've been."
Not that I'd tell anyone.
My brain's a scandal,
my lips are tight.
Physically,
I flinched at the brush of hands,
the casual arm over a shoulder.
I could write novels about kisses
but might faint if one actually landed.
My skin, a fortress,
my heart, a rabbit.
Touch was a battlefield I avoided,
and I was the general yelling retreat.
Spiritually,
I hated men.
Or maybe I hated myself for liking them.
Or maybe I just hated their audacity
to exist, to smirk, to mansplain
why Hemingway is still relevant.
Their presence felt like sandpaper;
their absence, like relief.
Is it misandry if it's earned?
Call it irony,
call it chaos.
I called it survival.
You might call it a mess.
But at least it's mine.
