love poem (you’re a little too good at speaking on my behalf)

love poem (you’re a little too good at speaking on my behalf)

love poem (you’re a little too good at speaking on my behalf)


you’re a little too good at speaking on my behalf
at the holiday dinner I sit between you
my mother, her husband, reproduction
everywhere and wonder why we pass
or do we pass? for what? lumpen, wifeish
I know when they ask now tell us
what’s been going on at work they can’t listen.
only men have jobs. why do I care. even though
we agreed on this tactic in the car on the way there
or after we fucked in the bed my sister grew up in
next door to a brass headboard I leaned against
as a child and had bad dreams about touching myself
or being touched as I came, it still feels horrible.

I love to talk
I really love to talk

I like to appear as a person

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