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

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