because we’ve all been loved & demolished –Jan Beatty, “Shower w/notebook”
I have no interest in a body free from scars.
I want to know where you’ve been cut, where you first learned the taste of fire.
Once, I wanted tenderness/a boy who would touch my face as if it were made of glass.
I will not break. My body was made to stretch.
I keep track of bruises in a spiral notebook. #217: knees against cement #329: I swear, he didn’t mean to…
Good morning? I am black and blue. This is my body saying to me: no more. Men are just flesh. They whisper my name so no one knows they need me.
Forget propriety. I am not a vault. What I take in I do not keep. Wear a hat/ tap shoes/boxing gloves. Use a condom.
I used to be afraid to say cunt, to say touch me here. I used to be afraid to say no.
The first man I loved taught me to use my body for revenge. He never used his fists, but if you met him, you wouldn’t believe me. When I broke my nose on Christmas eve kissing an icy patch of concrete, my mother wanted to call the cops. He kept me hungry/afraid but treated my body like a gift he was forever unwrapping.
Once, I loved a man who couldn’t see me unless I crawled into his lap. Careless/reckless a man with hands made for prayer and demolition. I begged him to notice. I left my front door open so he could find me/enter/ where he wanted. When he was a child his father hung himself. When he was a child he learned how to leave people wanting.
I used to want a man who could make me feel small, lift me like a gun.