he wanted me to
want it so he pulled
at my hair and screamed
“cunt” at me even though that
was all he wanted from me.
but they told me that my
chastity belt would
break if I wanted it because my
virginity was all
I have to offer. Then
they said my body
wasn’t good enough because I have
stretch mark scars that cut
through my skin and my
breasts don’t point
outwards like a neon open sign because I
am not your pornstar Barbie doll with
hard to crack plastic restraints around my
weak wrists and flimsy ankles. My
thighs
still touch at the top where there are
bumps from dull razor blades that were
supposed to get rid of the human hair that
still grows in spiky stubble on my legs.

THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY LETTER

this is a manifesto about how
my virginity cracked
into pieces that he held
through rose colored lenses that
let him call it
consensual. This
is a hate letter and a
love song about
STDs being the
slut’s disease and
antibiotics being the
chalky white excuses for
men like him to say
she asked for it.

this poem is the
short skirt the
tight dress that
squeezed out the
“no” he
never wanted to hear the
tight dress that let him
scratch me black and blue underneath
the lining of cotton underwear.

this
is a list of things
I want like a
strapless bra that actually
supports my breasts because
after all, they’re all
I’m really worth.
I want
you to stop calling the tampon aisle
the”feminine hygiene aisle” because it
makes women
sound dirty
dirtier than the
men who ask for
garters first and
consent second.

and I want
their tongues to stop
twisting like
knives and I want
people to stop telling me to settle because
settling for love is like
settling for dirty air
full of gas
and the ghost stories they tell
to haunt women.