Because I have you blocked, you will not learn
I bought thigh-highs today: replacing the ones my toes ruined
the night I took a trans man’s strap-on in my mouth
while he sucked off his husband.
I imagine, stalker, you would like to know that, as you would like to hear
about my Sportsheets order: how long it is, what colour, whether
it is silicone or latex, who – so far – has got to use it on me.
These names you’ll never know: because, for one,
I don’t like list poems and, for two, I don’t name names, no, never
– even yours will go unspoken. There are limits to my moxie.
And besides which – I have blocked you,
so you will never read about my date,
Google the venue, admire the menu, imagine
me eating, imagine you sitting
across from me watching – oh, you may imagine,
but I will starve your fantasy of context.
A verboten! sign, a little strip of formtext
will tell you you are added to my blocklist,
a victory – but pixel-thin and pointless
because in reading it, you know that you have made
me truly – unerotically – afraid.