no tan
lines

two teeny tiny birthmarks
and one mole on the back of
an otherwise
perfect swan’s neck,
flossed teeth dyed white,
curved spine
cracking
just a little bit

fat around the hips and
some dimples in the thigh,
unwashed feet,
bruises line the shin bone,
stubble above the knees that you
dismiss and lick my
breasts, two different sizes
but functional,
chapped lips.
some shrill yelps escaping
in between texts,
a sloppy kiss
I didn’t mean to let slip out

a whole chest of
wailing inner child,
stomach bulging slightly,
soft spot for
stifled violence and no
means to contain
it,
no way to wade through it without
gashes in the myelin sheath,
a nervous tic that leads to several sets of
full-sized tangled sheets,
steady self flagellation
and you run a bath of peroxide,
lay me like a mangy dog.
palms out and the stitches plucked
effortlessly
like an instrument you pick up,
learn casually,
leave on curb
go back to painting for a while.
I know how to suck a thumb;
self soothe the wounds of
made twin sheets.

I’m startled by every injustice;
even the way you look at a spider
without mercy
makes me wince,
yet here is your floor,
me on my back,
boots on the perfect swan’s neck and
me with a fork,
starting herself,
candles lit on the counter,
table set on my chest,
dine-in abattoir.

“perforated”

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