My body, a ceramic vessel.
Yours, a bruised one, but not a fixer-upper, never. Already proud. Already
ready.
Your body a cave.
Your body a permafrost-stuck-mammoth,
all things worth exploring,
but I'll admit I am not interested in
having *** with the prehistoric, or those with tusks,
just
you.
My body, weak. Weak to heat, weak to panic, weak to restoration even.
My body a liar.
My body a liar.
My body a liar.
Scared fool, scarred easily, but bruise-lovin', achin for pain and then collapsing in it,
so masochistic, so ready to be weak.
Because the scarred know how easily to scar again.
Because my body a memory, my body a collection of organs, of dark organs, of working organs.
Because our bodies ready to scar again,
because our bodies know what it's like,
because our bodies know
it's worth it to go.