Nice Guys

I am sick of nice guys.
And this is not to say
that I see myself hanging
on the arm of a leather-
jacket wearing badass
who will call me “Babe”
as he condescends me.
Who will pretend he’s single
out with the guys. No,
I don’t pine for bad boys.

I am sick of bitterness,
which I would find fitting
if women, truly, plotted
your demise over their knitting.
I can see them
crafting twisted stories
of love and then leaving
while you boast online
about what those man-
hating whores are missing.

Nice guys. Stop.
Good people don’t slander
women who know
their bodies are their own.
Their stories are their own.
What I wear or drink
are choices of my own.
And who I took home
or didn’t, last weekend
is none of your goddamn business.

But perhaps, I lie,
and this is the big cover-up
of our time. And misandry?
Well, that’s the real crime.
After all, it was Eve
who tricked Adam to eating
that apple off the ground
in the back yard last weekend,
full of worms. Full of lies
and women’s words.