We carried him through the miserable streets. His broken leg bleeding, his consciousness fading. We carried him to the overlit corner store. We begged and pleaded with the man behind the counter,
“Call 911, man. We got a real problem.”
“Get the fuck outta my store. Get the fuck out before I call the cops.”
“Yeah, man call the cops. Call the fucking cops.”
There’s a gun and we’re trying to get out the door. His leg is slammed against the metal frame and he screams right before he passes out. What we do? Where we go?
I don’t remember where we left him. He never came around again, I hope he was found by a concerned citizen, but I never heard. That night friendships ended. That night was the last time I ever asked for help from anybody.
There are too many parts of me turned inside out. You want inspiration? Let me inspire you. Here is a woman. A walking womb. I receptacle of all your wishes and dreams, your millions of potential minions. They will take your name and all your shame and they will build for you and hurt all over their little beings until they are grown and can hurt their own.
You want pink on the outside, look at the inside. Red and raw and livid and mean. Look at the ache and break and heartache. Backslash hashtag fuck off forever and take your insecure, broken psyche with you.
Tell me again how to be a woman. Tell me about my fate, my face, my force fucked embrace. You know nothing, poet. You paint, you play guitar, you sing, you work hard. You are a man for what?
You exist for pink flesh. Because pink flesh. You run in circles.
You run pink, you sicken and die. You break nothing. Hearts belong to women. Bright and strong. We live and live. You die.
We live on and on.
I hurt, I ache, I break.
I sigh, I smile, I say,
“This is going to be my favorite day.”
I’m invisible today.