It’s funny how they always blame it on
the girl. Cherchez la femme now slut shame. Like
itty bitty me could bring down the sons
of industry and prep school breeding. Strike
some blow against the aristocracy
still armed with money, power, even God
when I don’t even have a solid plan
or decent reputation. Use my body
and blame me for your weakness. It can’t be
you. It cannot be that I was something
you so wanted you gave up all to see
me crawl across your kitchen nude and lean
like some malnourished kitty cat while you
hold all the milk and savor every mew.
A dark discussion of denial detailed
by dirty digits, dozens deputized
to document disgrace. Desire derailed,
deprived, described, defined and digitized.
A diary delineates her dreams.
Each dick and drip depiction demanded
delivers data disciples debate, deem
as drivel, dilatorius, disband
as disappointed as denial drives
their dainty, droll demented doll distraught.
Demonic devotion she derives
dispensing dirty deets. Dollars for desire.
Devil’s in the details of her denial.
Dire dance for one; his quorum does defile.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola, Florida. Her sonnets and other poetry have been featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, Mookychick, Infernal Ink, Digging Through the Fat and No Other Tribute: Erotic Tales of Women in Submission, an anthology. Follow her at twitter.com/lolaandjolie.