I don’t want to be your little animal anymore.
My infatuation with tongue and teeth and tirades
is done; I’m sick of the claw marks on my ankles
from every entitled ex-lover. The thrilling
mindlessness bores me; feeling and frontal cortex
fight like daughter and mother-in-law,
I want out of this burning brain. I want out
of this snarling, against the wall lust,
that shoves me forward and grabs my hair and bites.
I have eyes that calculate and hands that build.
I’m leaving, I’m running, I’m a part of the night
singing back into the black where I began. I’m carving my
own towers from the dirt we walked across and I don’t
care if you’re coming. I don’t care if you’re coming.
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First Published at The Fem.