Can't Explain How I Feel

[Image description: photograph of a severely cracked LCD screen.]

Jay Hilgert / Creative Commons

it is three am and my
eyes are bloodshot
bleeding sore
staring at a shattered phone screen
while my pupils sway
in suspended syncopation
breathing in fumes of
plastic sex
one sigh at a time.
unh
uhh mhhhmmmh unhh
i am no real woman.
real women are pixilated.
i am
pervertedpudgyputrid smell like
chickendroppings smell like
burntdirtyhair smell like
sesameoilpubicsweat. 
real women are polished opals.
i am buried coal.
my torso cannot twist
like melted plastic
in warm baby palms.
i am a baby girl.
poor big baby girl
unloved unbridled uncradled
because of plump muck thighs
that will never
shake sell seduce strangle
on screen
real women say
unhhh
mmmmmm
in light lukewarm lute tones.
real women do not groan like
meek milked grazing cows
waiting to be slaughtered
sacrificed
stroked
on your screen.

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Fatima Shakur is a Sudanese American writer, born and raised in Chicago. She is currently pursuing her undergraduate degree in creative writing and comparative race studies at the University of Chicago. Send love (or hate) to Fatima via her Instagram.