Spank Bank

How is my body a thing you remember when you lost my laugh in the back of your wallet like a loose receipt? How is it you have a memory of me in your bed, but cannot remember my hair wet from the rain? Did the individual parts mean more than the whole? Arms and legs. Mouth and breasts. How is this what’s left? Barely anything. A mannequin you position to block the cold – a ghost you beckon to haunt your home when the silence settles and you’re sick of being alone? I wish I could take it back. Every piece. Every scrap. I wish I could erase the me you’ve pinned to the cork-board of your mind like a dirty photograph – a girl arching her back – and nothing more, and nothing less.


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