Hot molten tears are the consequence of never being good enough, of always having to wait in line and being thrown aganist the wall in every room. And this is not an aware modesty sought out for balance because some man proclaimed, “humble women are sexy” and everyone nodded. That all melted away when I lost count of how many times she told me that she wishes it didn’t happen, the t always lost to the sound of sirens, the same ones that spin through my head every time some boy tells me I am ugly. I’ve began keeping track because it happens so often. I straddle and ride aganist time in those moments. Eyes closed, hands merely stroking the back of desire, who tastes like day old watermelon exposed. I can’t help but think on days like these that I just want a Rubens painting to be real and our egos to splatter into a million and one shards because they deserve to be fed nothing but molotov cocktails for their crime of keeping us away from simply becoming matter.