I do not want them,
but I no longer find my defenses desirable.
Oye! Carlos!
(because I am not Mexican,
I am told I should not say this,
but Oye! Carlos! a red fucking wheelbarow!)
And when papa said I'd be
beating them all off with sticks,
I couldn't imagine it'd make me bitter.
They do not leave, papa.
They will never take subtlety
at its face value.
And so I am made into Bitch!
And told of as cold, man-hater.
They blame you, papa.
I do not.
I blame them for their unwarranted persistence.
Some call this a virtue.
I do not.
For they only seek to rob me of mine.
And so what am I to do,
paint myself up like the Virgin Mother
or lust after other girls?
This is what they tell me I should do
at twenty when I do not want them.
Oye! Carlos! Aye! Papa!
I grow so tired of not wanting.

07/10/2002

Posted on 07/10/2002
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