elizabeth joy levinson
What hunger were we so desperate to feed that we used ourselves as bait, picking runs in our tights high on our thighs, an invitation for the calloused palms of a man or the soft hands of the boys we declared our love for in secret slumbers, but flicked off when they were in our faces, until we found ourselves alone with them in darkened places, coat closets and bathrooms. Who was more frightened, who caused whom more harm? What did we know then? We laughed at your soft penises, your fumbling fingers that couldn't unlatch our bras, but really, we may have been more relieved, and when you died, we did not cry, we were already ether, or in the ether, always wanting to be wanted, despite not knowing what we would really have to give.
30 March 2022