Get Me Out of Here

By Juanita Rey

I forget I am happy
and I think about the lines in my diary,
the words like hungry mosquitoes
sucking blood from my skin,
leaving me cold as a ninety nine year old virgin
who never spent one second of her life
inside the head of a man

I’m here with a girlfriend
under a steady whirring of neon,
the underlying threat of electricity –
under my breath I say to all passing men,
don’t touch, don’t tempt me
with your lifeblood.

I hate myself in all such situations.
Like when I had breasts at last
but still held Daddy’s hand
on a shopping exhibition
because my fingers wrapped in his
were still the surest way  to his wallet –
red suede boots, anyone?

I am adorned in an outfit that shows 
both my legs and cheapness.
My aim is to come and go 
from here without being accosted.
Besides, I have an aversion to strutting men.

The music tries to imitate my heartbeat.
Good luck with that.
For a heartbeat is not a beat at all,
more of a compulsion.
And then there’s sex –
an unholy mess with naked meat attached. 
My judgement is infinitely more reliable
when I’m not in heat.
For sex is baggage.
I wish I could check it somewhere
and throw away the claim ticket.
Did you know that
I came to this conclusion
with a wet tongue lingering in my ear?

So why am I at this club anyhow?
To lock the mouth against kisses? 
Defuse all blood pumps?
Give the disillusioned center its say?

How I wish I was a baby again.
I could cry for no reason.
Know nothing but face value.
Chafe in places
where only talcum powder may follow.

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.