I’ve been thinking about
How they’d find me if I’m the next
Set to sleep in a velvet-lined box.
Clear nail polish,
Wide eyes and porcelain skin,
But a tattoo hidden beneath my white
Ralph Lauren blouse,
Just below my right breast.
I got it when I was sixteen, searching
For reasons to breathe.
There’d be slits in my wrists
From a watch that was always too tight,
My hair would be knotted, frayed,
Out of place for the first time, in tatters
And freshly women patterns
Of thread, home
To a spider or two.
Maybe they’d look in my purse,
Hoping for some ID,
And they’d find the pack of condoms
Tucked in the zippered compartment,
Or the Lortab saved from my trip
To the oral surgeon’s—God knows
The pain didn’t go away.
My feet would be covered in dirt,
And there’d be scratches on my
Bare legs. They’d take pictures, shake
Their heads, tsk
What a waste,
But I’d say
Nothing at all. To me,
The alley behind the smoke shop
May as well be a velvet box.
