His name was devil1983 and he said
he wanted to fuck me.
At thirteen, the sharp, black, the letter F
was Paris to me, black and white-striped men
in berets, singing poetry over the tower.
The letter U was a finger
curling upwards, a cheeky suggestion,
C was a breast—the right one—
which ached for more alphabet. K
had never felt so consonant, like spread
legs, or sliding down the playground pole
in grade school.
When devil1983 asked
me who I was, I told him that I was
old enough to know
what that meant / cherry-lipped and big-
breasted / and living in the lonely cold
attic of America.
At thirteen, I was true
until in this white box I wore, not the t-shirt
of a band that girls like me
would wear, but a tank top (tight)
and a black skirt (mini), and devil1983
undressed my Comic Sans with his Arial Rounded Bold.
After italic thrusts, I blushed behind
a screen and fell in love
when he renamed me Baby.
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