I hate the way men look at you when they just want to fuck you.
Why can’t you listen?
My lips breathe delicate intrigues, but in your carelessness you muffle them all.
I’ve tried to speak. I don’t think you want to hear me. It’s easier when I’m smaller, when I’m smoother, when I coo the whispers of insincerity that validate your masculinity. When I please your ego, your unintentional manipulation culminates. You’ve conquered.
Maybe we could’ve melded together, worked as one—you as a touchstone for my exploration of passion, of infatuation, of dedication. Me as a touchstone for your search for meaning, for perspective, for authenticity.
I see the reflection of myself in your eyes. You look at me from across the room, the corner of the party, the end of the hallway. This reflection glances back at me, hollow and devoid, atonal and wavering, incomplete.
I hate this reflection of myself in your eyes. A glimmering, blondish shell of ideal femininity—it isn’t true.
Still, I love the dance. I like when you lead, when you spin me so quickly that reason blurs and I am all yours. I like the control of your touch when you scoop me, lifting me into the air. I like that you can melt me to a pool of colors in your hands.
I enjoy yielding my vibrancy to you. Yet why do you only cherish the colors you want to see, the softest ones, the easiest ones, the most pleasurable ones? Pay attention to the way my body reflects onto the page, my fingers onto the written word, so orange and provoking and harshly reinventing.
My sensuality lies in my internal complexities. I can sing you the song of myself, the impassioned gasps of what it means to be a thousand selves coexisting. I can play you the unfinished, midnight melodies I wrote that first night you looked at me. Why can’t you listen?
Maybe you’ll let me play you Mazzy Star at 1 a.m., our laughter tinged with violet and silver, as I liken the soft guitar strums to the voice of a lover I used to know, to a life I used to live, to the person I longed to be long before I laid my head contentedly on your chest. Maybe, you’ll let me.
Yet here I find myself asking you permission to be who I am. Why must I be so keenly aware of smoothing myself for you, of making myself more pleasurable to digest?
Why must I simplify myself for your limited lens?
I am a kaleidoscope, a thousand broken hues so strong, so odd, so new. I am risky chartreuse and ravishing aquamarine. My colors do not perfectly complement yours, and for that I am interesting.
Today, I am black lace enveloped in the heat of summer, sealed with your kiss and my longing. Tomorrow I’ll be plum and bruised, unable to leave the corner of my room but asking you to put your hand on my chin. Yesterday I was golden and small—your little one.
Always, I am a kaleidoscopic rainbow of broken strengths which sing and sob. I am vibrantly melodious. Yet somehow, you choose not to hear my complexities.
The pulsating touch you crave—it is strongest in the dexterity of my fingers when they clasp these hidden notes I’ve written to you. These things left unsaid (now spoken).
Why can’t you listen?