Carved into my thighs
Are the names of the men I've ******

Every time a new one comes along
They can read with their fingers the names of the fallen soldiers
The names of the deadbeat dads
The names of the married men
Who have touched me
If only physically

I can feel them every time I touch myself
Clothe myself
Hurl over the toilet to appear unattainable
Every time I make love or hate
Why would we talk about it?
He doesn't want to know about my past
Or the men I've been with

I'm just here to be enjoyed for the moment
What the **** is a future and a past?