A Caricature of Womanhood

He tells me I have a pretty cunt and says he loves me right after

Love can be complicated, but I don’t understand why

every man I’ve dated has the same greasy fetish

for force-feeding me ripe strawberries that taste like sour milk.

The cruel ones walk like royalty and absentmindedly

tell me I’m beautiful, like that is consolation

for not responding to my texts.

Before we have sex, they always ask

if they can leave a collar of lavender handprints

around my throat.

At least they asked.

Owning things turns them on

—if only they would own up

to shearing shards off my innocence, but

these men grew out of the silk-haired baby boys

who giggle and grin when they break their toys.

After sex, I contour the shit out of my shame

to the watery strains of Tchaikovsky and think

I am a caricature of the beauty men want;

they are the reason I am convinced

womanhood is just a sage euphemism

for developing tits.