Inspired by the quiet tension in Sofia Isella’s work, and by the quiet predictability of certain men.

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You stink of lotion and stale bravado,
thumb hovering like a coward over “incognito,”
pretending secrecy is the same thing as innocence.
It isn’t. It’s just cowardice with better lighting.

You call it desire,
but it’s really control with a pulse—
a need to feel large by making everything else shrink.
You don’t want bodies;
you want permission to be rotten out loud.

Your dick isn’t a compass,
it doesn’t point to truth,
it just twitches when something looks easy to bruise.
You confuse arousal with entitlement
and call anyone who won’t kneel “frigid.”

You want filth without consequence,
power without resistance,
a body that never says no
and a mirror that never talks back.

But it does.
Every night.
And it keeps saying the same thing:

You’re not tempted.
You’re exposed.