I cannot survive on the ice cream swirl swirling against white kitchen/bathroom. You
I survive on the pure testosterone in the air when I pin you down and you
Teach me to fry and grill the food you ate as a child. I am not
Tell your friends that they should not tell me to leave because I am a girl. I am not.
Eating meat now, but I think of you as I grab the Frank’s Red Hot you raised me on.
I share my secrets with too loud words and you silently learn what you already knew.
I cannot tell you
What it does to me to hear
Your dismissal of who I am, how do I know so young?
Your casual, toxic white entitlement.
I need a father.