 And so I wrote this poem, which is an open letter to whoever broke into my rental car and stole my vibrator. I deserve this. After all, isn't my very ownership of this magic wand an act of theft demanding something that isn't yours, that you have only coveted through computer screens and shop windows, the throbbing power you are not supposed to have. I too am guilty. I too have dreamed of owning what was not meant for me. I too have lusted after the high of a wide stance on a crowded subway, the buzz of a boardroom that will look me in the eyes who can be blamed for that desire. I'm sorry if you were misled. It was dark, raining. You must have thought those boxes were full of electronics or something of value instead of the poetry books that greeted you how embarrassing. You left them all behind. I know because I counted. Left them drying in a friend's apartment, the ruined pages cracked and curling. You took my rain jacket, smart. You took a pair of jeans, some underwear, my camera, this at least you can sell. And then I imagine you slid your hand along the lining of the suitcase until your fingers came to curl around that coy cylinder. I am sure that even in the downpour you knew what it was. I wonder if you took it without pausing, whether it was an afterthought or the crown jewel, did you stop to consider the body it once soothed, the drawers it was hidden in, the roommates it embarrassed, did it redeem the broken window, those stupid poetry books. I wonder if you use it. I wonder what it means if you do. I will tell you one thing though, sometimes when a man interrupts me or his hands are thunderclaps that roll in unexpected. When the broken glass and soggy poetry of me is not enough to stop his engine, sometimes there is a rush of blood to my face, a tightening of muscles, sometimes I go lightheaded and my hands fist, sometimes I envy your ability to take.