This is beauty.
This is why I grip the porcelain every night.
Because men want this.
They want to run their fingers down a back,
and feel every bump and groove.
they want a girl who is always smacking gum,
to rid her breath of the acrid smell.
They want to see the structure of someone’s skeleton,
the one that can barley hold them up.
They want to sit next to a girl in the hospital,
with a feeding tube lodge into her body,
her thin, feather-like bag full of bones.
they want to run their fingers through
thin, disappearing hair.
they want these brittle bones.
they want this.