I almost didn’t post this poem because of the fears that follow. They creep in. Perhaps I am not deserving enough for any sexual attention even from an unwanted source. There’s like this old scoffing thought like a lump in my throat that says I should be grateful for whatever I can get.

But sometimes in this whirlwindy city I am approached by various amorous passengers. One guy actually cursed the heavens that I had crossed his path for being so young and unavailable, as if our potential for friendship meant less than a discarded pile of [insert random noun] to him, and my worth was reduced to the physical nature of my age and sex. My existence in appearance has become a wretched twist of fate.

In rebuttal, this is a letter I wrote to Hollywood earlier today. No transcript.

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