HEY ROBOT, I HOPE YOU SHORT-CIRCUIT – Rhiannon Thorne
You told me you weren’t a feminist. Fuck you. Well,
fuck you, but fuck me, too. I had lain in your
bed six years, left my metaphorical penis taped
between my legs, though it chaffed and scarred. For three,
I’d silenced my masculine cunt, referred to “The Event”
as “The Big Bad”. My friends did not deflower
the alliteration. What are women taught
but how to sift a rapeseed from a wreck? When I asked
you why, you said, with the assurance only a white man
can effortlessly muster, because. Because, said
disquieting logic, there are other factors.