When the class comedian takes my phone
And puts his number in it
The unhealed pre-teen in me smiles
At the half-assed effort
He must know I got a cabinet full of snacks and a jar full of weed
He must know I learned from generations of women
How to prioritize the needs of black men over my own

You would think I know better
Than to walk into the jester’s court
Fat girl be ripe fruit for the cute, wounded boy who can pull a smile out of your teeth

I give the way a fat girl should
I crack open easy and the nectar seeps into his palms

He pretends to like me for me
I know he is drawn to sticky women with lips like sap

It does not take long for him to miscalculate a lie
Messy men always leave a clue behind

I remind him of all the ways he got me fucked up
I remind myself ain't no glory in being the butt of his jokes