(i’m just looking for a pot to puke in)

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she doesn’t have any hips
and she doesn’t have an ass –
though she hides what she has under two-size-too-big sweatpants;
her voice is shrill and argumentative
and she doesn’t have any tits,

but she’s only 18,
so she’s just right for me.

she has no experience on matters of life and death,
and when you ask her how she feels,
her expression is bereft –
she only knows enough just to skirt on the fringes
of friendships contingent on how they look:
you know about Thrasher magazine. that’s a bonus.
now maybe you could reward yourself with a donut.

because she’s lonely, and sad,
and her legs are loaded weapons cause she works them out when she’s mad
and i wonder how they connect to her butt with no flab;
she doesn’t have any acne but her cheeks make her self-conscious
cause they remind her of a biological certainty that is altogether obnoxious:
we all hate our parents at one point or another
but to know no matter what you do, you’ll look like your mother?
oh brother.

perfect denotes not a single flaw
at all.
i can’t claim to be a perfect man
but i know who i am,
and where it began,
and every day is a chance to prove it again.
are you the perfect woman just because you’re young,

so you haven’t been corrupted enough yet to come undone?
more like throwing you on the bed and turning you around
then finishing first, just like men are renowned.

//jf 3.5.2022

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