Self-Portrait as Tiona

Eight strokes in,

somehow you’re panting & spent,

slumped in the corner of the bed

as though you’ve done something here.

Ask You didn’t finish?

Smile. I think of how men

want daily trophies

because they performed.

I count each throb

until you shrivel into yourself.

Eight strokes. Ten next time.

You’ve bested yourself

somewhat.

Then six,

back to eight.

You sweat, it’s incredible

how much you sweat from such little labor.

Sometimes I lay still. You don’t notice.

I say Maybe one day you’ll fuck me

as well as you pontificate about the world.

You say Be fair to me.

Call me cruel for rewriting history,

for saying you don’t understand no or boundaries.

There’s a dark joy in me that laughs at your meager gifts.

I am cruel, but I didn’t rewrite a thing, babe.

You’re not a monster, just a man.

Truly, you hate my guts because

you could never reach them.

This poem appeared in Spells of My Name by I.S. Jones, published by Newfound Press, 2021. Shared here with profound gratitude.

10.09.2026

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