You can’t define my kinky.

You can’t put your finger on how I twist my braids like this

 You can’t define how my fish net stockings are not intertwined with your need for lust, I mean intimacy

You can’t define my kinky.

You can’t understand how I write words like this.

Nor comprehend why you’ll never understand why the way I’m made up is not for your articulation neither is it something you can touch.

It’s only to be admired.

 It is a Van Gogh on a New York Museum wall.

 It is the ruins of the Colosseum in Rome  Messed up enough to look ART .

 But not whole enough to be defined.