Whenever I imagine threading my hand into a man’s arm, in that dainty way women in Victorian novels do, it’s always a dismembered arm, with no body or head attached to it
whenever life drops me in the dark filthy cracks of living,
and I want to lean on a caring shoulder, it’s always a severed shoulder, not belonging
to any heart or soul
there are no faces, no voices, no hands, or knees to the men
I go to in my dreams,
that way they can’t disappoint me
their eyes can’t lie to me
their tongues can’t hurt me
they can’t come to me unless I summon them,
they can’t leave me.
