Eliza could not be convinced.  Blonde, staid, true, composed of thickening blood and pupil dilation, the word “woman” means only to deny.  Never to provide.  I envy those who never provide — providing is how I broke my left thumb because I was fucking a woman with my thumb harder than I ought.  How my back compressed into a crooked snake. Reason for my self-abuse, which feels mostly like orgasming in secret merely inches away from my unconcious twin sister.

 The word does not matter because it is a word.  Ill kiss “no” – anise-scent, post-coital drone, intononsense, my nonsense is a sibling draped deep in 3 red kimonos, red lip stick of equal ire and murdering me with sex..  Imagine my sister as a virgin.  Imagine, now, me stealing the virgin Mary away on the back of my black and cruel motorcyle which I don’t have because I’m much too afraid of speed and anything but warmth and the back of my lover’s hand speeding quick through the wind toward the skin of my earlobe.  Some people knows me as a pussy and I cannot deny it.

My lover is a woman.  I am a woman.  We both have pussies.  We

both have vaginas.  I provide her orgasms by licking her clitoris and gently penetrating her vagina with my fingers.
I would never want a reader to be unclear on this process.
ohhhhhhhh  anti-Him, my hidden syllable
It’s a skeleton key, no.   besides it is not. This hair is in my mouth now, growing more poignant with flavor and magnifying poison, expanding with spit heat.  Great with it in June, I have not glimpsed my hair in seven years.  Looking at it so curled is pornographic and makes me want to cut myself.  I think cutting myself is childish, but I am not sure, this poem is a terrible mistake  yet Ive been instructed not to be sorry so I am glad that I wrote it even though I might not be.  the only real  memory I retain is of my mother, wider than tall, strolling away from my hytersic soul inside of a church on Monday mornings.  Mommy, don’t go or I will die
when devils take my meaningless intonation AWAY from Me, I play the part of Angry.  I scream yes!
“Yes” means draw men nearer to the dangerous parts of my self. this is intentional because I want to kill them with the gun I’ve hidden behind my feminine neck which I cannot believe is feminine. The word does not matter because it is a word.  I think cutting myself.  Myself thinks
Cutting.  Pupils are dilating.
You read that observe high-tide clit swell.  This is a particularly pervert.
A glass fell onto the ceiling upon writing pervert.  I write pervert and glass fell onto ceiling, her floor.  A litter box for the tuxedoed cat jumped one precise inch when the glass fell and I jumped one precise inch in my chair downstiars, sloshing my cocktail onto a pair of synthetic running shorts, though mostly bare skin.  The glass was full of air which is an erotic substance.  Liquid was flowing the color of Me, staining the carpet below the color of cream wallapper stripped during  sweltering July in North Carolina.  Daddy made me do it.
An Easter cactus screams in the greenhouse, mimicking the odd shape of my   _______
An Easter Cactus: “I am trying new things.  Do you feel sorry for me?”
My Self: “yes, of course, baby, everything will be ok.
Word rolls off my tongue and god damn if it were only more than a word.  What color am I inside?  Cut to me to find out though never tell my mother who would worry terribly and probably revoke my very sacred drivers license.