like red apples and missionary on white sheets
your purity culture is boring like your jokes.
like the drone of cicadas. you jerk yourself off
and pretend no one can see you lying on your back
spilling into your mouth, swallowing yourself over
and over. I see all of your indignities, your filth. go on
hit me with your car like you promised you would. everyone
loves a martyr, and I am already pretty exalted for a brown
girl from nowhere who couldn’t be bothered with mortality
and moved to new york at the start of the aughts like every
other middle class queer. keep your pastorals, those bucolic
wet dreams. gods don’t live in the fields. when it comes
to the divine, fake it til you make it. and you’re the last person
who could ever spot a fake. you can’t touch me, you don’t
scare me, I am the necropolis. I am an emperor swan.
I am a flaming citadel. I am my own congregation.