Some men will strip themselves like
dead fish and lay their spines in
my hands: They want me to stroke their bones,
I think. I'd prefer if they were octopi
with fat purple tentacles I couldn't fight shoved into
me against my whimpering objections.
But no. These men are
pens: I suck their ends and
crack them between my fingers when the words won't
come.
Is there no load to degrade my hate?
Is there no man that can break my hands
so they'll never write again?
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