On the streets I no longer meet homeless women
worrying about where the next can of soup will come from;
now, I meet women who carry their keys like brass knuckles
instead of unlocking mechanisms. The first boy I met
kissed like I owed him a favor. The first man I shook
hands with looked through my clothes
like a security scanner at the airport.
At bars I order a tequila with mint and start my new
drinking game: count how many seconds it takes
for a man to come on to me. I ache for spring, for softness
and the sweet scent of lemons, but even in winter
the heavy parka that keeps me warm is seen
as too much clothing. Men undress me with their eyes;
leave me feeling raw and exposed like a T-bone
splayed out on the grill, another meal, and the word “fuck”
has become synonymous for the word “save.”
I am not their saving grace, I am not anyone’s,
and I shouldn’t have to find my way into your bed
to prove it. I keep my tongue the only place it wants to be:
in my mouth. I am not an abandoned car to ride,
a wall to spray-paint, a warm body.
Beneath every woman’s skin, no matter how tough,
there is still a heart.