I play these same games since I turn eighteen.
The rules evolve in ways I don’t choose.
Each time I say daddy things becomes more extreme.
I find a way to retain innocence to lose.
I spread my legs for cameras, on stage.
Still I cannot look these men in their eyes.
My birthday does not reflect my mental age.
They call me on apps to make me cry.
I hide my pastel knives near my Barbie dolls —
pink walls requested with the reddest of welts.
I swallow anything that will keep me small.
I suffocate doubt with a tight leather belt.
After they cum, I pretend to be numb,
a hard candy shell over bubblegum.