I have had it with men. I’m too full-up with them, spilling over, leaky with tears and shame and broken hearts. It has become dirty and tiring and the thrill is gone. I am done with men.
My women are strong. I have chosen them well. My girls pick men like they pick race-horses, measuring the haunches and testing tempers before saddling up or falling in love. Either that, or they don’t bother with men at all.
My girls are tough and beautiful, loving with deep passion, not men, but each other. They shout harsh words at me and leave me tired and open, and I cry, missing them too early and too long.
My girl is exotic and hot-tempered. She whips around like hot coals; forces me to stare, hard like into molasses at myself, and she curls beside me when she is too hurt for words. My girl is like a sister, dark-skinned and familiar. We fight because it is too much pain not to. And when we leave each other it is only for a moment, a heartbeat, a second.
My girl tells me she worries for me while I am sleeping, that she watches me breathing, slow and steady, and wishes I could love the same.