tinder slut

ava min | Spring 2024

I
always wanted fairy tales.

I
wanted spontaneity and picnics.
wanted what what the girl wants

to be courted by three, four, maybe fifth the charm my skirt right off and sex

in a field under the stars but I,
hate grass,
I put my man pants on,

set off for the big shitty city
where every star is a whore, every
whore a girl

holding her cell, bag, drink and keys in a one-handed claw of life

no good at being kind, or thoughtful, careful. ring around the roses

hoping someone grabs me by the hair, calls me what I am, I am not a man,
tells me what to do, I

wring my hands and rank my choices

carefully.

heyy,

slut.
what’s a slut that doesn’t fuck?

desperate, or a little cowardly,

but still the girl who wanted to run the fields in a little sundress, undressed super-slow,

slow-motion, high-rise hotel sort of way,

fucked in the best kind of way,

chivalrous kind
of way, she wants you to grab her neck and
change the way her body moves

so she doesn’t have to do it herself, doesn’t have to

control everything, for once in her

God, capital-G, Goddamned life.