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.
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
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.