Out damn COFFEE MUG girl! 
Do you remember when he made YOU a headline?

Little girls in their
plastic princess shoes talk about growing
up to have someone make them famous.
Comb each hair of their Barbie into
lines and practice walking on tip-toes--
sucked in stomach in the mirror--
taping headlines on their walls
in frames of glitter glue.
The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?
Oh! KINGS WILL BE KINGS AND
BOYS WILL BE BOYS WILL BE BOYS
WILL BE HEADLINE MAKERS WILL
BE rape STATISTIC thanes who
will BE BOYS BE BOYS BE BOYS.
Be a girl when they say
on sleepover blankets:
I want him to be a politician--
to call me LIBERTY-- call me court 
cut me out of my pencil skirt on 
a desk and tell me I can pick
up papers for the rest of my
life-- heel-clamor at slammed doors 
and remember him calling me LIBERTY 
call me COFFEE MUG to fill
me with princess shoes.
Write the chorus the thanes all sing 
YOU WANT IT YOU WANT IT YOU WANT IT
YOU WANT TO BE MY COFFEE MUG--
wipe the stains from the headlines
and bend like a good SLUT
like a coffee handle remind us
all the he was a good man
a GOOD boy a GOOD thane a GOOD king
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?
Be a girl when they say
as they out grow plastic shoes:
I want him to throw footballs--
throw me like a vase out a window
to land on a sidewalk and have them
pick up the pieces of my sweat
shirt to ask me why I wanted to
let him break me so many different ways--
You know as well as I  that we were all
just waiting to be famous--
Be a girl when we ask each other
how much we want to be raped?
Some of us get lucky and get to choose
whose blood stains our headlines--
Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why,
then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? 
Oh! Don't say it-- don't call it RAPE
and how many headlines they'll
use to clothe us in yellow tape-- because
if your famous someone must be FUCKING you--
You slut-- you whore-- you curse of girl-body
who thought they could ever be a LADY
You're a microphone-- a spatula-- 
a stove-- a pen cap-- a coffee mug
-- a necktie lynched around a waist 
like a princess leash-- 
YET HERE'S A SPOT--and the headlines
will say: What is it she does now? 
Look how she rubs her hands.
So say I in my headline 
Come, you spirits-- you flash-blubs 
you cameras-- you naked in newsprint--
that tend on mortal thoughts
UNSEX ME HERE
-- and I won't wash my
hands of any king's blood--
and they'll call me a CRAZY and a HYSTERICAL
SLUT-- 
and brand PATRICIDE on my forehead
but at least he won't have made me famous--
Oh! The girls laugh when I tell them
I won't be a rape headline-- 
they say: It is an accustom'd action 
with her, to seem thus
washing her hands. 
I have known her continue 
in this a quarter of
an hour.
but it's only because I already have
been-- we all already have been-- 
there's too many spots of blood to
wash but look what you've done--
there's nothing left to take
COME THICK NIGHT
so the my keen knife see the wound it 
makes-- write RAPIST over
BOY WILL BE BOYS WILL BE BOYS--
will be rapists. 
Yet who would have thought the old man to
have had so much blood in him?