Fuck-meat. Messy, this sort of love. Others
get to live out their kinks and queer cravings.
What do you get other than a loner’s
hoodie and wireless vibrator purring
between your cheeks? Why do others love sleaze
so much when it scares you? Unseen, you slink
around your prim bedroom. “If the Furies
didn’t need sleaze neither do I,” you think.
But did they? To be pounded, split, to own
both lust and doubt. You have sighs and quivers
that you want to share. If that isn’t your
birthright what is? The truth is in your moan.
You want to love depraved sons and daughters,
be their fuck-meat. Fuck the chaste. Fuck the pure.