tight little thing
Nokyoung Xayasane

Stunning.
Gorgeous.
Beautiful.

What do those words
mean to me?
Why are they flung at me
like wilted bouquets
like gaudy tennis bracelets
and oversized, clunky charms.

Can I wear those words
to cloth my nakedness?
Those words,
they bounce off me
like rays of light.

Stunning
doesn’t penetrate me,
Gorgeous
doesn’t define me,
Beautiful
doesn’t mark me.

Those words
are alien things to me.
I reach out,
and grasp them
with my fingertips.
I place them
in the palm
of my hands.
I turn
these words over
ever so
gingerly
like a petulant child.

Object.
An object.
I am an object.

I look
ever so
closely.
I look
beneath
the words.
Nothing.
I look
around
the words.
Nothing.

What is in
relation
to these words?
What are they near?
Tight little thing.
Nice ass.
Cock-sucking lips.

Those words.
Numerous.
Abounding.

Tell me,
do I stun
with my beauty?
Tell me,
do I shine
with my beauty?
Tell me,
are you
grimacing?
How come?
How come
if I acknowledge
those words,
if I am aware of them,
I am no longer
a modest mouse?
I am no longer
a demure lamb,
sunning itself
in the open air?

Diva.
Vixen.
Femme fatale.

These words.
Must they be
awarded
to me, only?
These cheap trinkets
I found them at the carnival.
These
commonplace toys
I found them
hidden
inside bubble gum machines.

You speak
and I am.
Is that how it is?
You choose
the words
at your discretion,
at your leisure.
I exist
at your will,
through
your words,
this tight little thing.