when i was ugly
by Evyan Roberts
unbuttoning my shirt,
his tongue
opens my kisses wide.
and my words
descend
without warning,
summoning sentences
that invoke
fistfuls of garbage,
disguised
by my own mouth
as golden mirages
of forthright humility.
sincere exhibitions
take rest
on his thighs
and weigh down
his intentions.
at his lap
he finally smells
the shit and rot,
i carry alone.
rapidly, stories spill
of when i was ten,
and men grabbed at me,
and when i was 15,
and they shouted at me,
and when i was 18, and
they put their fingers
inside.
and in response
i ate, and i ate,
and i ached.
and he wraps it back up.
all my shit, the rot,
and worry. the heaps
of insecure trash,
my grotesque truth.
in return
he answers in clichés,
to satiate
the potbellied girl,
he stuffs full
with consoling flesh.
image: canva.com
Evyan Roberts (she/her) is a queer, fat, black, femme who is deeply committed to intersectional feminism and #blackgirlmagic. Her writing has appeared in 'Ithaca Lit', 'Not Your Mother's Breast Milk', 'Rogue Agent', “Kissing Dynamite” where she was the featured poet for August 2019, and elsewhere. She is currently pursuing a Masters in Social Work. Find her on Instagram @writing.femme
With Him
by Evyan Roberts
First published in Not Your Mothers Breast Milk
In his family's basement we’re watching truck drivers slip and
slide. Transporting fish from one arctic edge to some other
icy bank. As a rig slow motions its wheels, his lips
swarm my neck. He grapples with my limbs and wins himself
a place over my body. Pads of my fingers slowly push
into his rigid muscles. I plead for space, as technicolor light
catches the whites of my fingernails digging at him. Tipping
his weight into me. Stabbing himself into the barrier
of my cotton underwear, it crumples and shifts from the
wetness I cultured hours before. Panic pounding in my skull
as he continues carelessly ramming at my pubic bone. Bluish
hues of the truckers snowy tundra melt into his back and
glisten off his veiny temples bulging and perspiring. Between
segments the pale peach of his skin spits a copy of itself on the
screen during blackouts. The force of my hands more frequent,
more urgent, I push. Silently crying to get up. And he holds me
against the crook of the couch. Holds all my immeasurable
disgust, all of my disappointment and fright between his pulse
and cracked leather. The driver saves his cargo. And I
learned a lesson with him, drenched in chromosomal waste.