I’m loose wires, twirls of yarn hair,
burnt-ash eyes swept from a stockroom floor.
I’m eighty percent paper, pink-thin skin,
litmus-blue for you.
Rub against my matchstick shin,
Wind me up, wind me up
take me for a ride.
My rag-doll lips are vigilant as vultures,
soft as weathered-leather and chard.
My kiss is a spill of cumin on soft
bread, spongy-warm, rising.
Some man patched my wounds
with slop from a bucket.
He milked me, swirled me,
spit me out.
Another burnt buttons along my back
with his cigarette,
said he could see my spirit, like stuffing,
puffing out. I was his child-bride.
Now, I’m yours to sew together,
your pile of groaning breasts and thighs,
a scabbed-map of slices. You can split me
down my scar-lines. Shave me.
Save me. Shoot what you want
into my veins. I’m a cloud pocked with rain.
Wind me up, wind me up,
dig your hands into my spine.
I’ll be your puppet, your glamour-girl,
your bitch-in-heat, your insane.
I’ll play twice-as-nice once the pills
float down this numb-ebbing wave.
I have time, so much time, for the fog
to burn off, the pollution to clear from my brain.
Can you hear the seagulls shriek swallow, swallow,
then check my tongue for a razor out of place ?
(They have trust issues.) Come see.
Crank the bars from the glass. Free me.
I’ll be your moon, your gun. Your edge to scratch on.
I’ll write every day.
Even though it’s hard to know
which one becomes the last. The light
here shines florescent as the waxed floor.