Dear Butch

Dear past objects of desire and/or lovers whom I have not dated for having mobility problems and/or whom I have given shit for eating in bed, stretching in public, and not wanting to have sex when you were sick:

I am sorry.


A sassy femme with three bruised ribs and a swollen hip who is eating pizza in bed and about to hit the Nutella jar laughing with her inner voice not to scare her roommate. What am I laughing about, you may wonder? I feel as if Alien were going to come out of my rib cage and I’m ready to hold him, hug him, and tell him everything is going to be ok. He doesn’t have to go to college if he doesn’t want to.

P.s. I would still change the sheets or ask you to change the sheets before you made sweet, sweet love to me.
P.s. I think it would take a few more ribs before I stopped being horny.
P.s. I have a new found respect for pill-poppers in our community. The shit they have me on is da bomb! #funtimesinHarlem

2 thoughts on “Dear Butch

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