There is a time to please, to appease, to apologise

For the tease, for existence

To apologise for the breasts, and the audacity

To want ownership, to be landed gentry of the manger

To pray less than politely for a lack of invitation from

The testosterone laden entitlement

When you trust him, the deceit still sits

In that firm space between gender specifications and stereotypes

I’m afraid, I’m sorry

Your cunt is forever a bridle, securing avoidance, submission and admission

Firmly in persona

Under his hand

Your mind undermined

In a flinch

Under his hand

I’m afraid, I’m sorry

That you won’t recognise this binding, fixed position

Until he quenches his thirst in your objections, absorbing words into penetration

Wrapped in a chain of ovarion expectation