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My trash-talk needs work. I want more than gloom’s

muzak, more than these chrome mall mannequins,


half-clothed, standing guard near the changing rooms.

Stripped, I abhor what I see. It frightens


me how I’ve changed. Once I reveled in loss,

desperate for your tongue. Transfixed with romance


halfway down my throat. I loved all chaos;

all of Cupid’s malcontents in hot pants.


I was all that I’d take a bullet for

because there will always be some foul dude


afraid of the fab, of soft boys, who’d bust

a cap in anything rad and cocksure.


Picture this: a queen standing hard and nude

in a changing room — hard and still in lust.