This music you have never heard
sounds lovely, but do not

mistake a soft shoulder
as real estate for your curiosity,

a conquest to be kept secret
while you vote to kill me in public.

It’s a beauty mark, being labeled a “terrorist”—

considered a threat just because
the thought of one more second as a boy makes me sick,
a danger to others because i want to live

w/o hating myself. Yes, i am fragile,
but not in the way that turns you on.
                          This is not a debate.

i will never ask permission to be myself.
This smile, these open, crooked teeth

are nothing more than a courtesy. i am a warning
in a cocktail dress. i am well-acquainted
with the kindness of strange men

who smile back because i am white
& i have not yet said a word,

my country song of a voice waiting
behind a camouflage of rose blush, &,

as a one night stand pointed out, a submissive face.
But my mouth is

a lover of trouble, both giving pleasure & taking it
back. She is a sleeper agent
because occasionally i fit, i pass

the test of what is acceptable in America.
There is no beauty in standards, in nostalgia,

& you wouldn’t know what to do
with these painted hands, each finger
forever marked by motor oil & aluminum scars.
i hurt myself over & over & over

before realizing you were not worth hiding from.
You can like me in fence netting, like me
as diva rushing through the airport,
tits bouncing, skirt up & rushing

towards the lift of my jock strap.
But my throat is an exclusive space
            —lips, tongue, & soft whispers

for my own. i am done listening to you
because my table is set & i—no, we—will eat
until we are too full of love to run.