Decadent Bulimic

When you want to fuck me

I believe in God,

when you don’t,

I am an atheist.

The devil is celibate,

I could care less for his hands,

he takes over my body

and nails it to the crucifix: man.

Structure exists

to make

women feel guilty about eating lasagna.

My office chair

is too cold for my vagina,

though the patriarchy sells it

as a hand on my ass

during daylight.

Lounge in a bed made of pasta and screams,

my stomach is a bedspread for your penis.

Shun high boots

bras are too tight,

lose yourself

in my natural form

like a sperm colored kite.

I am a rebel

against the norm,

against restraint

and diet porn.

There is no Jesus

when you don’t call,

Allah is a fantasy

they sell to poor people at a Pakistani fruit stall.

But I want my cake

and eat it too.

Love me while I binge on

Burger King and juice.

Lick my rim

like an ice cream pint

Bang my gem

like you’re being electrocuted by moonlight.