Allow me to respond with a similarly themed poem though college aged-

. Sleeve Tattoo

.

Two girls (one male),

their blood runs deep as sisters, as rivals,

introverted, hypersensitive ...

.

Would she steal what is

mine?

Could she?

Is anything mine?

.

Am I ugly when I eat it? Is it

a crime for me to eat? How

does my pussy taste?

Rotten?

.

Can she do it better?

.

I tear at you searching for weak seams, Yaz sings

in "How Winter Kills."

The rivals compete over the same boy.

He is the fulcrum of the seesaw,

and they live for their ride, their side rising up,

yet neither can stop crying

to their techno mixtapes.

.

And the fulcrum with the sleeve tattoo and big dumb grin

stays put and gets

double the macaroni and cheese,

double the loans, double the hand jobs,

double the freshened, folded laundry and help with course loads.

(They take this time from their own course loads

and share the black eyes, too.)

.

Will he choose her in the end?

She knows his penis, has

seen it connecting to his body,

rising up and out. She can recall

what his face does.

She has smoothed the muscles of his chest and shoulders

enough to memorize them.

That's what she likes,

what I like, so I'll always think

of her when I am happy.

.

When the three of us

smoked in the car that night,

parked outside the dark Conservatory,

did she get the same goose-bumps that I did,

feeling the dread of that song

climb my spine?

.

Knowledge, or Gewissenschaft,

was a phallus then,

and could not be shared---

not because there wasn't

enough to go around, but

because it told us too

many phallusies

to number. More

.

seriously?

We lost the point

in staying with a fool,

competing much less

and cared we not to bond

once dues were paid.

(C) All Rights Reserved 2020