(cont) (pt 2)

she cannot save you

a narcissistic force coursing through bodies of literature
of the same vein as its counterpart,
no more alternative, aware, or radical

you are only following what you know-
millennia of men writing woman
the recipient of
subject to
our bodies strictly vehicles of their
sorry attempts at actualization

we consume this!
we digest these portrayals!
we let them soak so deeply into our pores
that our own growth is trampled
and we begin to disappear
forged into an anti-identity
a shapeshifter that will transform
into whatever contorted idea can fit
within the meticulously articulated space of their ego

when we find that we do not fit,
our limbs sore and bruised
from the weight of stillness

we must remind ourselves-
their actions are by their own hand
and we are not responsible for it

manic pixie (in your) dream girl

RE: subtle misogynists w/ savior complexes

down a bottle of whiskey (a Man’s Drink)
until you feel your guts coming up your throat.
regurgitate Bukowski into Microsoft Word
while you ask to see her pussy on Skype

and if that lands you in #LIT,
dedicate that blubbering mass of bile
to the women whose bodies you’ve dissected into pixels,
sloppy metaphors for the Goddess you (pretend to) worship.

name them by the colors of their hair
(Bubble Gum and Moldy Snot)
and the shapes of their asses.
anatomize them with your words
because what good is she
is she ain’t sprawled across your dirty sheets,
vessels not of your salvation, but of your sin
(that romantic enough for you?)

be honest, you envy the Marble Arch of her spine,
so pure that your filthy touch cannot taint.
you cannot acknowledge her autonomy or you’d face
how her legs carried her out of your bed
to somewhere you are not,
how her eyes bore through your veil of self hatred.
she saw your narcissism like cataracts that filtered her entirety
into body parts you can wrap your mind around (or put your dick into)