Dad I think I have to tell you.
I like to sleep with strangers.
I like to get real stoned,
real drunk, press my face
against the window
and get fucked.
It doesn't mean I don't
stand up for what I believe in,
my pelvis spread wide
like Europe, sprawling,
my cunt red, chest satisfied.

I know
who I am.

I'm a cottage attic
filled with gold. My hands
go blue-gray cold. I'm New York
fucking state. I'm the river
and the slate.

It is important to be nice,
I recite, with silver
in my mouth, with stones,
with false starts,
the cum in my throat,
the guitar riff rumble.
In the front seat of a convertible,
we take our long hair down,
we talk about boyfriends, bitches, biology,
we talk about bike riding,
I feel it between my legs
like a lever
and push off.

I'm sorry to tell you this so abruptly
with my skin shining,
and my golden heart ticking,
but we will not lie anymore,
not with our mouths,
nor with our hands.