men who like to f*ck you

men who like to f*ck you
on beds that sag to the floor,
on linen they never wash.
face down, amid crumbs and stray hairs,
tiny civilisations, squashed.
they call you a ‘good girl’,
as if they’re the authority,
when they play videogames
until the early hours, and
let their crockery grow mould.

men that will f*ck you
washed-out, pale under the glare of
their cheap strip lighting.
icy and penetrating, synonymous
with smear tests, legs in stirrups.
they ask, ‘mmm, do you like that?’
as though your knees, bruised
from their gritty floor is a gift
you never asked for, but somehow,
they always think you want.