I am not your savior, I am
not god with **** and small hands and a girl’s moan.

The good things about me are not here
to redeem you
or be your solution or stand in the exact light
less nice women would not flock to
when you said the lightbulb
was shattered by a ***** with razor sharp claws.

I learned this
with rope burn breathing on my wrists

and biceps screaming at me when they flexed, they
could have given me a black eye
but now I just have
a black heart
mourning the family man I could not rescue.

I tried to chain myself to him, be
the good girl who woke up a child and laid down
a *****
hiding his tears with the dampness.

I did this so well I
never knew I was hiding my own, becoming a pink
orb of plush, sponge, a ******* machine.

It did not put a baby in my belly
just a ghost in my womb
of everyone’s sadness and pain and large hands that
are believed to protect
when a shadow casts from your bed at night –
see, the same shadow casts over mine.

Tell me cheeks like mine
are made for smiling, and I will tell you to go find
a ******* smile
of your own if you need it so badly.