what we have is not social justice, it is
not even justice.
i am sitting alone on the ground, there is blood
around my legs
and you are gate-keeping, putting your hands between
my brain and my spine and pulling out the pins,
tacking me up like a dead flower, a dead girl,
ice cream glitter melting out from my
toenails; the people watching
are commuters, empty passengers;
we are in the public subway having a fight and you will not
touch me, you have not touched me for seven weeks.
I want sex but also autonomy. what we
have is not celestial, not even
hell, we are writhing on the floor under the shoes
of strangers; we do not have
sex we have politics and I am I am I am
winning.
the last pavilion 