Rape Sells

I tried to sell  
A volume of poetry
To a certain publishing house
A few months back
 
I met with a representative
Who claimed her name was Darcey
She had an immense forehead
And bad Botox on her lips
 
She claimed she liked some of my stuff
The more visceral poems
But didn’t fully believe the rest  
 
She didn’t trust my youthful erection at my mother’s funeral
Or the sex I had with vague consent
 
She told me, “look... Rape sells- but Jermaine, you are not a rapist, and we both know it”
 
And then, and I swear to fucking God- she eye fucks me and licks her lips
 
She says it’s getting late and tells me that she has to hop back into her rental vehicle (a Honda Odyssey) and slowly make her way back to the comfort inn. She was worried about being followed and that someone might break in and have his way with her:  
 
It was a heavy handed invitation but I knew what I had to do
 
I tailed her car for 5 miles. She pulled into her parking space. I knocked on her door and forced my way in. I threw her against the wall and said, “bitch, I’m only doing this for my art.”  
 
I couldn’t tell if she was confused or horny. Her forehead was so large, it was easy to misread her eyebrows
 
Then I tore her dress down and put myself inside her
 
Afterwards she wept, tears of joy I assume
 
Later, that publishing house offered me a deal
 
Rape Sells will be the title of volume 1