my jeans and stained underwear are rubbing up
against the rawness we deposited
between my legs,
each step
clawing, pinching at my tenderness.

you never really notice the roughness of lace
until it is scraping across your rug burn
and snagging
its porous cheeks on sprouts of razor-edged hair,
who knew something so delicate
could be so torturous.

the raggedness of my curled mane wears
like a scarlet letter on my forehead,
a blaring siren
of mindless wandering into a long-poisoned fantasy
that reeks
of your pillowcase, and cigarette ash, and far too much whiskey.

habits are making a mockery of my life,
but I've been dying
since I exited the womb so it feels
familiar,
familial,
just like this coarse ache of denim and lace
against raw flesh.