I didn’t hurt you, it wasn’t me.
Somehow, it’s lost on the resentful
the current circumstance, all a dance
of holding on or letting go.
We cannot let go until we admit
the problem, accept it, and take
an appropriate action based on
whatever code of morality or
ethics that tickles you peaceful.
I did not hurt you, specifically, I tell
I hurt me and about 15 girls growing
up because I failed to tell them
I loved them.
Too scared. Too proud, I hurt them
and me at the same time—
it was an alcoholic thing.
Freud said drunks can’t express love,
and, well—I’m a drunk.
But it wasn’t me, I wasn’t the one
who made you specifically mad,
and yet I feel like I did—my point of
view, my quoting the bible,
which you call misogynistic.
Yikes, I have a lot to learn, you
know there’s always another side
But it wasn’t me, I mean—even if
I used the offending bible phrase,
my intention was good, not bad.
My stuff hangs down, makes sperm,
it’s a wild show of swirl and girls
in the head, trying to manage sex
with mutilated genital parts from
an operation I did not consent to
Abused at birth, then growing up
with no talks on love, but plenty
of alcohol drinking and sports.
But I do not blame you for this;
you are a woman online, we hardly
know each other, but I’m sure if
patient, we would find we were
both fallible human beings, trying
to get along on this side of the dirt
before the stars and God conspire
with age to take us away, bodies
useless as our spirit soars forever.