Until now, now that I’ve reached my twenty first year:
All my attempts to impress the male sex have been criminal:
From initiating proposals to accepting their terms,
I’ve seceded from my expectations.
A cooperative agreement is what they call it:
my current, compliant state.
I’ve known this agreement between the genders goes
Back to one bite of an apple. Some things never change.
Is this who I am? To permit a first kiss
between sips of Keystone?
To submit to a “hey” at three in the morning?
According to this agreement, this is.
I’ve failed to go through the fine print, the very words
that, looking long and hard you read:
“Send nudes.” Somehow, there must be more than this.
There is more.
This agreement has opened more doors for me, not limited
To the following: my rented bedroom, the back
Of my station wagon, and a boyfriend’s fraternity.
Is this really me? I’ve entered into a contract where
I’m applauded for grasping how light bulbs work and
Where I’m afraid to walk home in a grey sweatshirt.
I’m just staying in this weekend.
“Want to hang?” he asks.
“Just let me know.”
Read: 12:21 AM.
(inspired by Solmaz Sharif)