mark us
like sheep
my fleece may be
store-bought,
washed clean
of all
identity
but i’ve got
a patchwork neck
spotted and dotted
with broken
blood vessels and
i’ve seen the
girls with pennies
scraping at their
skin trying to
get rid of him
one stroke
at a time
(his lips were
just as rough
as the ridges
of their coins)
and
i’ve heard the
girls with pennies
their marks may
have faded
but their pockets
jingle with
each step they
take each move
they make they say
his tongue dripped
gold and
silver and
bronze all over
them but all he
left was
red

mark us
like cattle
my ears may
hold rings and
not tags
but i’ve got
skin so fair
you’d never
dare believe
that beneath
i’m just
another collection
of broken
blood vessels and
he may be
gone from the
surface
may be
easy to remove
but i still
bleed
(and the girls
with pennies
scrape at my
neck one
stroke at a
time)

mark me
like property
my body may
be a temple
but your
prayers will
not be
heard here
you say
the girls
don’t need
their pennies
we say you
have no say
in the way
we heal

our vessels
may have been
yours to break
but they are
not yours to
mend and you
can pretend
you never knew
what we went
through when
you decided
to leave
your signature
on our skin

but we promise
when we look at you
we only see
red