spread me open and lay me out on your table like a blueprint (I'm just as hard to read)
nail me on the wall like a laminated world map (put pins on all the places you've been)
oil me up like your old, squeaky boxspring mattress (you remember the one)
give me life like the cpr dummy in middle school health class (mouth to mouth, get it?)
tell everyone how beautiful I look like a dead body in an open casket (we all know what you really mean)
wreck me like the abandoned house behind the railroad tracks (what a shame, it has so much historical value)
wrap me up like a reopened wound (oops, my bad)
bite me like the hangnails you get from chewing your fingers (it's a nervous habit)
drill my pieces together like ikea furniture (you might just have to wing it, I lost the instructions a long ******* time ago)

it came to
me spoken
from the voice
of everything
that ever was
and ever
will be:

stop *******
around with
white boys.

i am growing
my hair out,
long,
for a boy.

it climbs down
the column of
my throat,
reaching for
knotting
fingers:

the tale,
in reverse,
of samson and
delilah.

how do i
become
significant
in the life
of a boy
who claims
the stars,
and the
unexplored
caverns of
the universe,
are overrated?

you made me
stronger for
the next boy:

but god,
how i was
only working
for you.

i wanted
it to be you
so bad.

i still
do.