Body of Work
He calls me good girl as if I earned it
As if I my feet are bound, toe to folded under toe
a hand placed in front of my smile all the while.
Still life with running mascara.
The gift of words fall from his lips like dirty pearls
some to my face,
some to the floor,
tap-tap-roll
seeking dark corners and safety amongst the dust mites
The smear of his thumb colors my chin
as I take his speech into my throat
and struggle to inhale over it
He sees just another visible art form of breasts and
breath.
A ripple through the skin of blood and bruises.
A place where he enters
I only lay down
I only close my eyes
The only rebellion I can muster.
As if I my feet are bound, toe to folded under toe
a hand placed in front of my smile all the while.
Still life with running mascara.
The gift of words fall from his lips like dirty pearls
some to my face,
some to the floor,
tap-tap-roll
seeking dark corners and safety amongst the dust mites
The smear of his thumb colors my chin
as I take his speech into my throat
and struggle to inhale over it
He sees just another visible art form of breasts and
breath.
A ripple through the skin of blood and bruises.
A place where he enters
I only lay down
I only close my eyes
The only rebellion I can muster.