You want to tell me,

what it is, I should do with my body, but who are you with your dried toothpaste around your white crusty mouth to tell me what I should do with the pink flesh inside of me? The tiny things that drop, they are mine, and until they meet with something else, they are mine only, even then, they should never be yours to decide what to do with. Phlegm pulls a part from your teeth as you speak and I want to throw my Riedel through the screen but I would never waste my two-buck chuck, that I now pay four dollars for, on a scum bag like you. If I didn’t know you, I would see you walking down the street and my heart would fill with sympathy at your aging, withering body, the thought of your grand-kids not spending enough time with you, but because I know, I know what you try and take from me, my right as a woman, I instead feel contempt at the sight of you. You think grabbing my pussy makes you a man? You think it’s domination I want? At first there is nothing behind your beady eyes, but then it appears, you are not superior to me, you are terrified of my power.