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.