Image description: Black and white sketch of a snarling dog.

When you have spent the fun delicious parts of hurting
and there is just the pits,
clean house. Sweep and wipe and hunger.
Sing yourself
into a special
little frenzy.

There is a slice of empty cellophane where 2 ladyfingers
used to be and I look down at
my own lady fingers: dried out, long and elegant.

I’m a writer. I know I’m good.
And I keep making these little noises false
starts really, of distrust and calling out.
Entry points into rage and touch.
Writer before woman. Writer before anything.

I spend a long time in the shower.
The heaviness of being naked
my feet…all red and full of blood.
The articulation of my body is ecstatic
dissonant hurling.
I cherish this time to be myself.

Do you think I’m adorable?
The smell of my perfume
with my sweat is sickening. I used to be little
I used to be ever stranger ever quiet cheeky
Little thing.

I have been swooning lately…
I find people quite
stunning. When they laugh at nothing
or look perfect in their clothes.
or give me something special for my pocket.

If I really love you I’ll ask you to hurt me
in my own clever way. And I’ll love it.
I’ll fucking love it.

And even though I demand a bludgeoning
with a snarl, a sear, a kneel
The hand across my neck is gentle
deliberate. Almost enough to sooth
the canine thing, and yet

I am laughing over the ashtray and
the stove flashing that dogeyed grin
at anyone looking
stroking cheeks with my charm
and class. Slick and glorious
as my chest gags into a basin
and I take a drag.

Bones too big for my skin,
insisting on the tear.
Clean house. Wipe and hunger and kiss
myself with burning red points
and really stink with the wanting.

let it all
My dear,
My love,
My cheeky

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