This Is

This is Not a pretty petty poem

about once fucks and flings
one night stands with a singer in a band
relationships that worked or didn’t
kissing cuddling canoodling
shagging sweet sexy sluts
nor hugs nor pecks on the cheek
nor that feeling, when your knees grow weak
your heart skips a beat
butterflies trapeze underneath your ribcage
and you kiss, soft Nothing kisses
with your eyes closed
arms around someone that you don’t know,
at least not really, down to the soul;
No it’s not about love nor the gods above
nor affection rejection erection
the reaction to your first ruby red rose
from your high school sweetheart
and the silly things you said as you’d part.

No. No. No.

It’s not even about rape,
though I’ve been through that too
and no one knew
they just assumed
that I had given my two cents consent
and my virgin red tears
after I put back a couple beers.
And even when I just so happened
to be happy with a man,
he took it Anytime He Wanted
even when I kicked and screamed
he would just pin me down
call me a clown
and think I liked it.
But I didn’t.

No. No. No.
I’ll just be straightforward
and honest with you
Abandon all Allusions
Metaphors – what bores.

NO! NO! NO!
(how much I wish I could scream
that word a thousand times,
but I won’t.)

This Is.
looking at your own breasts
as your sitting quietly alone in the bathtub
playing with bubbles and soap suds
watching Peter Pan fly so high
forgetting that you once wanted
so badly to die,
to throw yourself in front of a train
and cry as the train complains
about the mess you’ve made of yourself.

This Is.
masturbating in the shower at dawn
taking pride in self pleasure
feeling up your own chest
pinching your nipples till
they grow good red and hard
just because you can,
massaging your toes, feet,  legs,
hips, waist, stomach,
boobs, neck, and shoulders
and feeling like you are the Best
person in your life,
always were.