thinks of the men who said tho she was sexy
on the screen, she might as well have been
dead in the blankets. Thinks how "now I am,
I'm free, don't have to smell garlic breath,
be rubbed raw by stubble." None of them
knew her, none of them had a clue what would
touch the lava under the aching. "Being dead
is a relief. I don't have to dye my hair,
work on cellulite, nobody drools for my
boobs pressed in tight uplifted cages or
looks up my dress. I don't have to do
a hundred sit ups, be moist pink flesh,
pretend to keep coming. It's cool down here
but a little boring. Once I dreamt of a
Siamese twin who could read my thoughts, felt
hot or cold when I was. We'd share the same
heart, be together at death. Sometimes
I think I'd like an other me, someone I
could be myself with, but a part that was
a little different, could get inside,
take me out of myself but not shove or tear
or burn or give me something I can't
use. A penis that's part me, that won't
keep me up or let me down. I'd be in control
until I was ready not to be. Not a dildo
of plastic that those flesh men were, but
a penis with a mouth to suck and kiss and
even more talk to me
