You are not broken, but all of the boys who
want a fixer upper find you.
They mistake their hips for hammers,
and their kisses for nails.
Their fingers, cold and impersonal,
as much hoping for a crack as
they are making them,
find the nooks and crannies,
and press caulk into them.
Shine them with whispers meant to
bring back the natural glow of a healthy woman.
They balance their hips on yours,
like that yellow bar on the mantlepiece,
is the wood straight?
is the construction sound?

No, they whisper, no it's all wrong.

Back to the drawing board, then.
This time, they'll build you right,
they promise.
Sand down all of the splintered places
where the last boys hands gave out before
your corners were womanly curves.
Dip your eyelashes into fresh black paint,
watch it drip onto your cheek
and leave it.

Watch it drip down your neck
and paint over it.

They don't believe in luck,
so they fit the curve of your hips to theirs,
not meant to be, not yet,
but you will be.
Their hands, coarse and broad,
turn your bitten, smudged lips
into things straight from a *****:
open and lush and
beg me, baby.

So you do.

You use all of the words he put into your mouth like rocks:
all honey and sweetie cakes and let me love you.
They broke your teeth going down, but
they taste like the sting of a slap coming back up.
You use all of the soft places that he made on your body:
let him fill them with caulk until they are unrecognizable,
until you, too, are unrecognizable.
You show him the constellation of scars across your shoulders:
whisper do you love me now? with your hand prints wide
across my spine, the sting of your sander against my waist.
You teach him about desire
with open legs
and open lips
and the tattoo of his touches on your body.

You teach him about sadness with sharp,
corners that are shoulder blades.
He doesn't recognize those, asks himself
if he missed a spot,
so you show him your splintered teeth
broken back
burned thighs,
ask him if he wants to try again.

Don't wait for an answer.