fuck your sex poem about me.

I definitely told you that I'm not a girl.  
You responded with the typical concern -  
but wait -  
yes, I have the body you want,  
o sexual pioneer of Tinder,  
you still get the curves and the nice tight magic.  
We were in agreement.  
I have the fire and the smoothness and the grace of one,  
but there is no way in hell I am a woman.  
You said "I understand",  
o lovely lay,  
you said you didn't care.  
 
I was so damn enticed by the things you had written,  
the messiness and details;  
(more exciting to fuck a poet because they're sucking up those details),  
I told my other guy "sorry not tonight"  
and let you pick me up.  
You were less aggressive than I expected,  
and besides the sex, even, I really like what I met.  
 
The only thing is,  
day after I check for my details  
to crop up en-poemme.  
Sure enough,  
enough there;  
it couldn't have been anyone else.  
But  
I don't know who it's about.  
Some woman.  
Not me.  
I've spent too much time  
having fought she  
to stand it in this context,  
to ignore the fact  
you ignored my facts,  
 
that even the art I made with my honey-skin  
could be tainted by girl again.  
I wanna burn it -  
you said you knew -  
I wonder why  
you glossed over me in girl-glue?  
So your friends can read your page  
and rest completely assured you're straight? -  
Well, I, o delicious friend with one misstep,  
would like to burn that verse in my fire -  
'scuse me, "lava" -  
like my forearm says,  
you're to call me they.