other than that ms lincoln how was the play

what makes you so convinced
you need to reach out and touch.
 
I clearly am not a shiny autumn apple
not a full fruit for you to pluck
but there your fingers were,
touching.
 
y'all had let me go from second-row to front
my hand over the beat like it was
a basketball for dribbling,
doorknobs on my heart chambers shaking
their metal from the sound.
fuck.
 
and  
breaking the complete heaven of the hiphop,
you were trying to tell me something.
it was so fucking loud
no hope of that,
even with you shouting in my ear.
gave you my phone with the notes open.
you wrote your message and handed it back to me.
I didn't read it.
turned off the phone and put it in my back pocket
while looking you in the eyes.
 
later, you tried to guide my hand to your girlfriend's ass.  
I grabbed the hand you used,
held it up next to my face,  
looked you in the eyes again and said
stop. fucking stop.
 
(the phone said "do you mind if my gf kisses ur neck"
saw it after I left)
 
were the people behind me hoping the apple would drop?
or all of them were too busy bumping to the hiphop,
taking it in like vitamins,
not getting assaulted?
 
it would have been fine. would have been cool.
if you
had even LOOKED for a "yes" in my eyes.
or asked before fucking touching.
doesn't matter how many words I knew,
how many weed hits you gave me,
how hard I was getting down without having drunk anything,
how goddamn gorgeous I was  
playing the bright movement of the venue. adding my spice.
doesn't matter.
fucking crow.  
learn the difference between human beings and shiny things.  
 
all my metaphors kind of tumble when I try
to do this rugbeating version of chastising.
I wonder what it would have taken  
to teach that lesson,
because -
I reiterate -
holding your stupid hand up by my cheek
unabashed,
my huge eyes loud enough to speak,  
and my mouth going "No"
were not words you wanted to read.