How is it that strangers now look at me and say, “you must be cruel in bed”? What changed in my eyes to give them that impression? How do I now hold my face that I didn’t before? Why am I now self-conscious about the jutting of my hips when I stand close? I don’t think I’m a rageful soul, the way angry men I meet keep their fury buried deep in their fingernails; but I keep looking at you and thinking about what a good and glorious great joy it would be to stormily break you slow, ride you down, lead you through wildfire so that I could stand with you on the other side of pain.