at fifteen i wielded a
weapon more poised and
calculated than a man
with a gun, bullets echoing
off of dark passageways;
the crevices of my skin and
gaps in the pavement,
in my teeth, in my thighs
i wielded my body still too
young to understand that
sinking teeth into skin was
not love and making love to
a knife was not blood lust but
blood shed

cross referencing every image of
womanly excellence, i’d excel
in the art of feeling like sh*t
but pretending the arching of my
back and biting of my lips was
more than optimal to eye what
was always right in front of
me: a woman divine but never
holy; the fear was instilled into
me that i was not museum
worthy from the start

i had known to preserve my
anonymity, my face too shameful to
undertake the blazoning boredom of
clicks and camouflaging the
scars into something worthwhile for
you, something easy to digest
something easy to put a tongue to
something easy to put a number to
something easy to wh*re out to
something easy

at eighteen i wielded
a weapon that was derivative of
my self worth and i have never
looked back since in fear that
turning my hands to the past
would leave them tied
above my head like you
used to do, i remember love
as it was, i’d lick your fingers and
turn into a faux goddess, a beacon of
femininity when my body contorted
and stretched and housed you, all
of you but i am not a god nor a human
i can free myself