i am
words
dripped in honey,
a golden sheen
across
my body,
coursing through
my veins
in luxury.
i am
an interlude;
the space
between your fingers
were not made
to contain me.

My fingers used to
always smell of her,
her scent would linger
on my clothes for days

Now that she has left,
my fingers reek of cigarettes,
and my clothes remain unwashed

All I want is for my skin to
absorb her scent once again

But this is not a poem,
and she has changed her perfume

Thumb
Express gratitude
With one another
Or offend
In a distant land
Index
Accuse someone
Of stealing a fortune
Combine with the thumb
To showcase another’s misfortune
Or greet
With a fleshy gun sign
Middle
Offend quickly
Minimal effort required
Showcase your anger
While hurting another
Who’s gonna stop you?
Ring
Useless alone
Practical with others
Only has value
When combined with jewels
Use to start new life
Or end one
Pinky
Hospitality and courtesy
Aside from those
Small in stature
Still like all the others
Use to show commitment
Accompanied by a promise
Broken like bones
But…
Who came up with this?

I am uncertain of my body,
how strong it is, how little it appears that way
having hurled itself into danger several times
and coming out only with a few hand scars
see its muscle
see its fat, unneeded storage,
look and don't touch, please.

The soft thrumming of my heart
in my throat shows how strong it is,
sneaking its way up
to where it shouldn't be
see its battle scars
see its healing wounds--
still festering, a little raw.
look and don't touch, please.

I've got a strong jaw and a chin
with an irritated red galaxy on it,
an odd contradiction between
soft and hard--
see the constellation in my scarring,
a rude connect the dots you shouldn't be playing,
look and don't touch, please.

I look out from hazel glass,
flecked with hidden gold foil
you see if you stare long enough,
but staring would be rude--
see the one way mirror,
so that you stare at you and not me,
look and don't touch, please.

My fingers are long and spindly,
artist's hands,
the webbing in between makes them seem smaller--
see the raised marks,
see the wearing nailpolish,
my hands are an artist's hands too.
look and don't touch, please.

Shackled, and chained.
Yet,
I’ve never felt so free.
You’ve awakened this primal instinct in me.

Burned, and bruised.
Tormented, and used.
I'm yours to abuse.

I kneel,
At your feet,
Waiting for command.
Waiting for the slightest gesture granted from your hand.

I look down.
My hands in lap.
l am at your will,
Waiting for your finger’s snap.

With hair pulled back--
Gathered in your hands.

And cheeks warm--
Caressed by your voice.

Lips are wet--
Touched by yours.

Cleaning, and cooking.
Almost every day.
Folding, and preparing.
Doing whatever you say.

I'm yours;
I'm branded with your name.
I'm bonded to you,
No matter what,
And I stand unashamed.