No. I am not alone. I see
your eyes glaring
through the bushes, not at the
world that gives you second
chances, not at the heavens
you say I don’t belong in.
No. Piercing right through me
as you plot just how to jump.
Will you push me back on the bench?
Or my hands and knees in the dirt?
Will you rip off my sweater?
The one I never gave back to my mother?
The only sounds in the night being echoing buttons
falling to the ground, the heaving of your breath
as your left hand is grabbing, pulling my skin
like a baker kneading dough
your right one strong enough
to muffle the screams you’ll say I
didn’t try to yell even as it’s soaked
with tears stained grey from the
eyeliner I shouldn’t have worn if I wasn’t
asking for it, begging for it, on my knees
coercing you into acting out all of those
desires you never knew
until you knew me.
No. You don’t have time to spare,
you’re on a mission to prove yourself to
all those bros in high school and their
girls who whispered at the lunch tables,
danced all night at your prom while
you sat home alone; prove to your father
who always wondered why
you never brought home a girl,
always wanted his little boy
to grow into a real man;
prove it to yourself, know you can
do things most men just think about
and never have the balls to do, just look
at you, you’ll be on top of them all.
It’s not about being on top of me,
No, it’s not about me at all.
Forget my mom’s sweater, go straight
for the kill, wearing pants without a belt
and lace panties too?
I never think things through–
but wait, will that stop you there?
No, of course not, you’ll pull the string,
the sight of blood an arousing thing
I suppose, for you’ll get harder than I thought
harder ever was, you’ll let blood leak,
let it leak all over you and rub it in,
a warpaint, the loss of me mere décor
for you glistening through
the sheets the ground the audience
I thought I knew.
No. You won’t even have to worry
about when we hear footsteps
coming toward us, you won’t need
an escape plan, a lie, a gun.
No. You’re safe here as anywhere else
hiding out in the undergrowth of my mind.
Stephanie Kaylor is not an aspiring female poet in her mid-twenties, or rather, she’s often closeted as to avoid solicitations by way of broets. When she isn’t fighting the patriarchy online and/or crying up in bed alone, Stephanie is completing her MA in Media and Communication at European Graduate School, already holding a MA in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies from the University at Albany. Her work has appeared in Thirteen Myna Birds, Blazevox, The Willow Review, and other publications. If you’re a male feminist who’s already smitten, her bio ends here; otherwise, Stephanie can be reached at facebook.com/stephaniemmkay