poem theory unsent letter

hurt her

Do you hurt her?  How does she like to be hurt?  Do her eyes roll back in her head?

Do you feel powerful, dominating her thin, white, abled body?

How does she cum for you?  How many times?  Is it hard to be quiet together?

Is it ironic, to fuck her in the house where you suffered abuse, mostly ignored by community?  And where you were previously not quiet or quiet, having sex, considering the needs of other people, or not?

Is fucking her worth it, for the pleasure or company or learning?  Is every person a universe of bliss and hell?


Do you love her somehow?  As she cums for you, do you love her?  Does the love leave your body when you drive away?

If you don’t love her, does that hurt her?  Does she want more than you do?  How long can you keep fucking her occasionally?  Is this liberation?

I was never casually sowing wild oats–I was in love with everyone.  When I was 22, I had no idea how to share my body without sharing my soul also, in a longterm nesting way.

I still have no idea how to share my body without sharing my soul.


Where in your body is your love for me?  Does it pulse in your hands?  Does it beat in your heart, or rest in a lung, burdening you like pneumonia?

Is your love for me changing?  As you know me better and I’m more vulnerable, does love deepen?  Does it ripen into something more real?

What is my role in your life?  Am I playing it well?  If I’m supposed to give you stability and strength, am I winning?

I’m like an underground stream of water.  The well is deep.  You can drink as much of me as you want.

Can you feel my desire for you, and is my desire a problem?  Should I try to obliterate it?

Is it valid, for sexual desire to be part of how I cherish you?  Does the desire harm you now, or will it harm us later?


Is it wrong for me to think of you as a top?  I hold my knowledge of your roles as sacred, though I will never be your bitch.

My preference would be for you to hold my wrists so tightly that I cry as you somehow force your way into me.  My preference would be for you to hit me until sounds I don’t recognize wail out of my body.

Is it wrong for me to wonder how you hurt her?  I don’t let myself think about it much, but in the middle of the night, I feel less compunction.

Sometimes she texts me.  I act like I’m her friend–in a way, I would like to be.  But I’m jealous she comes from money and you fuck her and probably hurt her.  Or maybe it doesn’t factor in, anymore.


If you take me to the beautiful oak savanna, does that mean I matter to you?

Did I ever matter to you?  Who am I to you?  Is it ok if I die without you ever kissing me?

I would stare into your eyes if you wanted to.  I would abuelita your baby.  There are so many possible futures.

I wish to be helpful to you; maybe I’m helpful somehow.  May it be so.

By Nest

Curious, disabled Earth Goddess, telling the truth.

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