On the Crooked Path

There is no need to hide my cock,
to compress it, regret it, to tie it up
in a knot—to sleep in a bed too small,
to wear heels or a puffy hat
to make me seem tall.

There is no need to fake it, although
I prefer cherry red lipstick,
dresses that are too tight,
revealing the bulge in the night,
the platform shoes that make my legs
seem long and slim.

No cover-ups, no excuses;
I do not tolerate abusers,
or chastisers for wearing panties
instead of cute-printed boxers—
God, I don’t want to look like my father.

Set me on the crooked path,
away from the strait and narrow.
Today, I want a taste of danger,
and tomorrow, drink the wine of sorrow.

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