You may call this a confession,
coming out in a trilogy,
something like a funeral procession,
so let’s call it a eulogy.
crossing a line,
drawn in ink, drawn in the sand, what’s mine is mine.
This dress, this mouth, this finger no ring. Mine.
Your money, your thirst, your fake ass car,
these drinks, that dance, the bill. Bye bye.
Call this a decimation, a feminazi’s proclamation.
A caveman extermination.
guys in the corner jobless.
I’m done saying please.
Please to Bryo the tout higher than times tower.
Please to Mr 40something troll,
in my space,
whose odor is taking a toll.
Please to boss man,
can you spell sexual harassment?
I’m a soldier out on this streets,
protecting individual parts of my being,
victim of my own creation.
to be clear this is not about money.
It is also about height, weight, complexion,
walk, talk, connections, eloquence, depth, posture, pedigree…
I forget the word,
what the knock-off-suit-wearing-gold-tooth-having-thinly-veiled-misogyny-spewing creatures are called.
You grin like you’re not the thing scraped off the bottom,
like you are a hero that we forgot,
like you are playing the same sport.
Like you are not on the side,
watching the gladiators fight the lions.