Every morning I curl my hair and plan to take over the world, yet I’m stuck in your imagery, your paint and your pearls so you could win me over like oil burning crayons
Every morning I plan to save these children yet when you yell at me I feel like a child-broken and crying out for peace
My anxiety rumbles like death coming into the night, like how Anne Sexton feels every night her husband walked through the door: disappointed in this dimension
Every day I think of the men that failed me and I wonder why lesbianism couldnt be right
Because a man needs a woman more than I need a man
I could break loose if I didn’t need my muse, the sex is just for entertainment now and the seed is boring to look at. I beg my God to show me the way so that I could help other girls not be the woman I’ve become.
There are more dildos than men with grace, so which one should I choose?