Minute Man.
Dear Minute Man,
You are weak.
Weak as in,
Watching all over those girls on your computer screen still gave you no idea as to what a clitoris is.
You seem to mistake my moans,
For pleasure.
When in fact,
They are are groans of tiredness and repetition.
You seem to not know what love is,
Or sex.
Or for that matter,
Pleasure unless it is your own.
You rub against me like a used tissue,
I'm the runny nose.
But this time,
Not wet at all.
I do not sigh because of your fingertips,
I want these last 37 seconds to be over.
You want them to last.
My eyes do roll on the back of my head.
But because you can't hit anything right,
Not even if it smacked you across your fist in broad day light.
My back does arch,
My mouth does hiss.
But from pain,
Not comfort.
You don't even know what a labia is.
So,
Minute Man.
I hate to hurt your little ego,
But it has come to this.
My hips seem to know a lie when I hear the boyish things you spit,
My legs never pried open my themselves on the first place.
You need to know that you're a nice person on the inside,
But your outside,
Has no business near my insides.
You could never bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself.
And for that I am terribly sorry.
YOU ARE READING
Woman.
PoetryA book of poems and feelings. A book from a girl, a rose from the concrete. A Woman growing.
