He tries to place me on a sandcastle pedestal,
but I’m actually high tide.
I’m a lunar godzilla,
toppling his you’re not like most girls edifice.
I’m the tsunami nightmare in his wet dream.
See, he’s dressed his colorist slander in this Chicken Boo disguise of “preferences,”
then labeled me a beautiful exception,
expecting me to spread eagle in gratitude.
My waves crash and tell him I accidentally swiped right on his dusty ass.
Now he says I’m an ugly roach.
A self-proclaimed sapiosexual,
he tells me how pleasantly surprised he is to be able to hold an intelligent conversation with me,
positioning himself for some brain.
My waves crash and tell him I wish I could say the same.
Now he says I’m a dumb ass bitch.
He calls me Queen, and describes my natural hair as my crown,
wanting me to bend my knees to worship him as King.
My waves crash, give a wincy smile, then recede.
Now he says I’m a stuck up ho.
He thought his coercive compliments could put me places I didn't ask to be.
He could never control the sea.