Every time I begin a poem
my hands itch to write a maybe.
Maybe, sweet girl, he will hurt you.
But there are no maybe’s in a day for
the boy too stupid to know what he stepped on.
Another girl scratches herself absentmindedly
with the past and I ache to snap her fingers.
Men filthy with self importance
and thick black hair that goes nowhere.
My skin crawls when they ask why girls don’t like them.
What are you worth, little boy?
You don’t deserve a brand new toy.