Christmas Lights & Dick

She wants stormy weather and Bon Iver; Christmas lights
strung loosely from the ceiling beams in her room, she wants
a dick in her hand, first flaccid, then hard as cement.

She wants to suck crystals—rose quarts and hematite,
she craves chalk, hungers for the moisture in dirt, writes
poetry in condolence letters mailed to the veterinary

hospital where her cat was euthanized on a sanitized table
top. She rolls her hair between her fingers, pulls it out,
tongues it.

She wants dick in her mouth, but not because she enjoys
the sensation, but rather, because the only time she feels
powerful is when a man is unraveling around her,

see,

she's akin to those same Christmas lights, in that same attic
bedroom, in that same stormy town, with that same vinyl
scratching the stylus.

She is
what she imagines herself to be.