my own skin
nice, tight, fuckable
get underneath it,
nail it.
it’s perfect
i’ve never seen anyone so perfect
flakey, hard to get,
coated in blood
bury it underneath the rest
another notch,
and i don’t have a bedpost
but i keep them on the nightstand when
i want to feel something.
this intimacy is frightening, but i’m a woman and i’m not scared of blood.
but why do i let it dry on my hands?
why don’t i mind the tang in the air?
i’m told i’m soft, i must be soft, i must stay soft
i do love when firm things cave in under my fingers,
so i guess so.
i try not to think of the days when my skin leaves painlessly
i try not to think of my eyes rolling back
i try not to think of my easy smile
i try not to realize why i go back, because
i’m a woman, so i must be good with pain.
i run towards it. i like pain, i guess.
i try to forget about the pleasure paired with it so i can be a good girl.
i’m still so avoidant!
the blood sits on my hands and i let it sit so i can
remember.
i remember the peel,
the perfect peel,
the peel shooting down to my stomach
*******, the sting of tears, of tears, almost ignoreable
and then it’s in my hand.
i made it. i made it after so much pain. what a relieving departure.
it’s ******. there’s wetness where it left.
my shame,
my damage,
my pleasure,
my blood,
my pride and joy,
my skin,
sits on my nightstand