poem: “guess what? i’m not a robot”

what we have is not social justice, it is

not even justice.

i am sitting alone on the ground, there is blood

around my legs

and you are gate-keeping, putting your hands between

my brain and my spine and pulling out the pins,

tacking me up like a dead flower, a dead girl,

ice cream glitter melting out from my

toenails; the people watching

are commuters, empty passengers;

we are in the public subway having a fight and you will not

touch me, you have not touched me for seven weeks.

I want sex but also autonomy. what we

have is not celestial, not even

hell, we are writhing on the floor under the shoes

of strangers; we do not have

sex we have politics and I am I am I am


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