Lust set me off like wide hips bobbing
on the back of a bad boy’s motorcycle.
I can’t tell you when I first knew, but at some point
the idea of being a wild girl clinging
to a bad boy’s electric-fenced heart
and barbed-wire biceps set a wet whistle humming
through my center. Once, the boy down the street
said we should share our secrets. He showed me
burn marks on his arms. I showed him how
to take a bra off without taking off
a shirt; I shimmied it out of my sleeve
and dangled it out the window—gravity
plucked it from my fingers like a prompt butler
and then pulled both of us to the floor.
I’m a broken girl I go with the broken boys, I thought.
I’m a broken doll I go with the broken toys.
