i go on a smolder binge.
lick my lips
like you are licking me
from inside
the lens
my lips are drier
than they look,
pursed slightly,
fuschia with a hint of quiver,
black corset with the straps
pulled down to reveal
soft breasts and
rock hard shoulders
used to baring the brunt
of the pain they
spill to me
and expect me to carry. 

I trace a broken nail
over the length of my clavicle
to remind the camera
I have been touched
he says my eyes are “bright”
and pauses for impact.

they are traced with
sharp blue pen
smudged with charcoal and
unblinking, wide open
ready to receive and a very
false articulation of how
I actually feel
when touched.
as if a question appeared,
I answered,
    I am usually shut tight,
     braced for impact

thinking of finger-filled nights,
someone else’s on mine,
sternum pillows,
tonight im
missing hem,
torn stockings,
dirty feet and unkempt nails
with grime underneath
picking at the past.

its perpetual,
a haunting you can’t
your death or
is it everything in



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