Candour

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.