I want long pink hair.

Which point of fixation

Rests on long dances of

Keratin finishing into broken

Bonds of

Circular

Femininity.

And why does it stain my sheets?

Lana-queen, Nabokov inspired

Dare to do crazy

As well as love,

In the time of cholera.

I paste my lips

Sticking red cracks of

Dehydration and

Sexual Activity.

A brown sugar sits

In my throat

Fuck or god split fire

In my mouth,

The difference leaves

A sour taste

On my tongue--

Only to wash down

The taste of cherry pie.

I want sex.

But to be known not for

The precision it takes

To remove my shorts

(as he takes time to notice)

And not for the demand

I don't dare request.

I want high heels,

And other senses of

Validation.