Body of Work

I gave my body away like a gift wrapped in newspaper
— impulsively —
wanting nothing more than to see your face at the moment of opening.
I’m sorry if I disappointed you.
If you expected my heart to be a Hallmark card rendering,
and not the cut of muscle you now hold in your hands
— beating, still
— bleeding, still.
Maybe you wanted something not made of teeth,
or hair, or nails.
Maybe I shouldn’t have skinned myself
thinking every lover would want to trace my veins
like rivers leading to open shores —
maybe you just wanted something more
palatable.
Like a poem.
But even my poems were like being brought bones
and not knowing what to do with them.
It’s okay that you didn’t know what to do with them.
I never did either.

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