Injustice is a Misplaced Wound

Your beauty is rotting

An open wound - I cut into

your handsome words and find

trifles

that crumble like plaster

It’s getting old, this male privilege

you plaster on your chest

like a name tag

Your insides are rotting

Your false charm, it’s boring

the way you spell out your

Intentions like that

automatically makes you Good

Your good intentions mean jack

shit - you wear privilege 

like a gold medal 

when you have fought vainly

for nothing worth having

Your approval values zero

in every currency I own

in coin and in sex

when you wear social validation

as a biting incantation 

on your arrogant lips

Oh boy, your beauty is rotting

and the injustice is that 

I must wear the wound