My Castle

I know how to play the game,
Although I rarely do
Of flirting and being sexy and cute
If I straighten my hair
And pretend I don't care
And blow you kisses
You might love me
But that's not me
I'm not perfect smiles
And wide eyes
And a cute, high voice.
My teeth are crooked
And coffee renders them imperfect.
Who cares?
My voice is too deep to be pretty
To you, perhaps.
But one day, the voice
That wasn't cute to you?
Will blow someone's fucking mind.
Just as I'm not cute, I'm not sultry either.
I don't play the game of coy flirting
And biting my lip
And waiting to text back to make you want it more.
I could
But that's not me.
And honey, while you call me a spoilsport,
someone will one day understand
that it's not so much that I don't like games
Just that I never liked the ones you play.
My game isn't tic-tac-toe.
I won't send you X's and O's.
Chess is my game,
And I'm the motherfucking queen on this board.
And you can be my king if you want,
But you need to respect the rules of my castle.

(Wrote this poem about a month ago after a guy tried to shame me about not wanting to flirt with him, as if I were obligated to be interested. Got a little pissed about it, if you can tell. Not my normal type of poem, so I figured I'd post it to give my poems some variety of tone.)