sb. smith
fuckable our bodies, fuckable until they are too fat too dimpled too soft too hairy too round until the insides of our thighs touch and there is no pathway for the almighty dick. a man walks into a room— “boobs. how big is too big?” he asks; “anything bigger than a handful is a waste,” my not-looking-for-a-serious-relationship says as I peer down at my double-deeze, feeling like that: a waste. my body, unfuckable untouchable by any man for I hath given my purity to The Lord and taketh it, He hath just like every other whistling truck driver on my grade seven walk to the gas station.
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antilang. no. 5
