Lovers ghosting on women is no news.

Starts with a slow decay,

and shape shifts into a phantom that screws.

With our heads and heart.

But the longing that knowingly holds the placard,

of the writing that says, come fuck me hard.

Where the sex is just a convoluted play of power,

with a lover who has metamorphosed into a coward.

Her apologetic need that is ravenous,

goes on unchecked for a man who is callous.

How much of it is too much, and how much just fine.

In this mayhem, where do I draw the rushed line?

I searched for the signs but shifted them aside,

when found to make space for your desire that slides,

In and out, in and out, in and out.

It became a low humdrum of two machines.

rubbing against each other while the mind screamed.

For a gentle caress that transcends,

the boundaries of fucking to a love that sends,

words of comfort and kisses of compassion,

to a wretched heart in need of a companion.

You tell me I am imperceptibly losing my mind.

When I call you out on the indifference and the daily grind,

of the actions that speak too much,

and the horrors of safeguarding memories that are a crutch.

A woman who is easily manipulated,

by the lover she once undoubtedly trusted.

Or maybe she never did, if I recall correctly.

But I have been told not to rely on memories this faulty.

Your issues with women, and the dichotomies.

Of the madonna/whore type complexities.

I couldn’t be your restrictive model of a loving wife,

but I did opt for an honest manic life.

A life bursting with camaraderie and our systematic strives,

against an institution that sabotages lovers and their drives.

Then again, which wife doesn’t show signs of psychosis?

A term coined by men to undermine her life’s crisis.

Of being married.

An institution that normalizes,

calamities of coercive control,

and suffocatingly regularizes,

sexualities of wives,

and their official status’ of being his prize.

My sexuality seems like an exhibition 

to men who feel entitled to the privilege of inclusion.

Not everything is about you,

and your need for penetration

into a world that doesn’t require your participation.

No wonder the love is deemed as experimentation,

and reduced to the sex that feels like a presentation

for two women whose relations battle societal rejection,

but an exception is made for their orientation

when there is a market bustling with consumption

of their bodies,

as commodities.

My bisexuality is laughed off to oblivion. 

Only taken seriously when you have an erection.

Two women in that night of drunk affection

are subjected to your incessant voyeurism.

There’s no end to the lascivious questions,

of what happened in that night of intemperance.

I have to resist being stereotyped,

and find a voice loud enough to be characterized,

as legitimate and powerful

but who gets to decide whether my identity is meaningful?

For straight men it is a dilemma

whether to other me and further the stigma

or be accepting for the sake of their perversions,

of late night porn fetishes and sex conversations

that revolve around two pairs of tits and ass

crude terms that define the sum total of being a bisexual lass.

But when I try to reclaim my sexuality,

I am shamed for having an uncooperative personality.


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