To the guy who thinks masculinity is a sharp ended point in a woman's ribs,
who sifts through women as he would sift through channels on a bored Sunday noon
to that guy who asks about my weight, body and size before he even asks my name -
you are not in highschool anymore,
this isn't one of your frat boy parties,
the real world doesn't play your little boy games,
imagination station is a one-tracked train and your stop is long overdue.
this isn't "bring your toy to school day."
forgive you, for mistakening my temple for a nightclub,
for confusing my saliva for a bottomless vodka,
for thinking that these parts, that are MY OWN, are tagless instruments in your pathetic one-man show.
forgive yourself, for ever lying to yourself that masculinity lies between a woman's thighs.
Written by the Poetical Arsonist