you? you will know me by
the devil etched squarely on
my thigh and my ascetic
right arm twitching
for something to hold,
my left nail picking
at the scripture
In God We Trust,
circling a web on
my inner elbow,
now red
from the plucking.
my nails are unpainted,
filth-tipped and broken.

my clavicle is jutting,
as are my eyelids,
sharp  and
neck perched, gazing upwards
and down at you,
the long legs beaded with sweat,
tongue lolling,
panting,
you found me exhausted
and

watching it drip
from my lips
like little fits of rave
and fury; my concern
not being water,
or the saliva
leaking down my nail
as I try to hide the trail on chin,
but posterity:
warning.

I clear my throat again.
to let that portending
excuse me.
squeak.
I’m crouched, less than five
feet from this angle and
you invite me in.

“the women”