But Wasn't It Nice
Alexa Vallejo | Poetry
Imagine a sex castle. Imagine
a piecemeal man. It is science. Like a beam of pure anti-matter.
The doctor takes two virgins,
a shadowplay of rape. Magenta flips the Medusa switch and
everyone is stone. Time
for the floorshow, the tyrant says. Nineteen years old, I
watch from the booth with shame and desire. Wet feathers hang limp, mouths grace chests,
lips spell sin with every kiss. People throw shit at the screen, lob obscenities and laugh. You
can just be a girl if you want.
Is that what you want? Indignant and dry, Riff Raff screams: They
didn’t like me. They never liked me. Spurned from the orgy, the prude aims his ray gun and shoots.
Alexa Vallejo is a trans Filipina-American writer and musician in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Guernica, and The Rumpus, among others. She was born in Delaware in 1982, just as the world was starting to end.