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The man you’re with knows curvature confusing only to you,

it is an old playlist made in middle school,

the laptop is closed and protected by a bouncer,

which means a lot of pretty people inside and

skin gets itchy when there are people dancing around.

Your instinct is to go for the jugular

will you love me please?

Eventually maybe after one more glass.

A truth serum from the outside in:

You’re cut off eventually.

Real tough guys never shed a tear

you see scars of ducts sewn shut

crying burn the witch.

Rejection leads into mania, into revelry, and dancing horizontally,

bruises act as breadcrumbs to guide girls and gays

saying hi as you swipe right and scroll down

church choirs imply choreography and

wishing you’d ask me to dance.

PLEASE

without me there is no music

My pulse is the baseline.

Riptides and body rolls, swimming in sheets

Angels sing harmonies off-tempo,

because feathers are celestial,

You’ll get home by Monday morning.

Friendly fire when

a faggot wanders into a building of self-hating gays.

Hot-heads are so repressed,

Pigeon-holing their drag queen personas,

because everybody hates pigeons,

Churches used candles because

electric bills are expensive in the city.

And wax play is a fun date with the guy

an app set you up with, he’s aggressive

consensually of course, most bottoms are masochists.

He dirty talks into your trigger warnings

forced orgasms shaking and practicing square breathing

confessing sins

To a stranger with a god-complex.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kara Shea wrote this poem as a way to express and process poor habits she and her friends have used to express and process their sexuality/past sexual trauma. As a bisexual woman striving to find community and acceptance, she found it important to share. Who you are, who you love, and how you love is your experience to learn and grow. 

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