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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.