men see me as a white canvas,
pure and holy, but best of all
empty

two eyes like projection screens.
a mouth - it doesn’t say much
but it laughs at their jokes.
thin wrists to wrap
whole hands around.

sometimes they peel back my skin
wedge hands between the muscle and bone
scrape out my tissue with
fingernails,
looking to fit a fist
around my heart.
they expect the same thing:
one empty ventricle,
ready and wanting

so instead of giving them my heart,
i take a box
and paint it red.
the keepers are
the ones who
know the difference