• he takes it off slow, like peeling the scales
  • away from a fish
  • dark coffee with no cream on the nightstand
  • i tell him to wear it more often
  • and he laughs
  • sun pulls at my pilled blanket
  • i should have changed the sheets before we sat down
  • but i can't stop looking
  • he tells me that the skirt is his mother's
  • that he's only worn it twice, it's meant for dancers and nimble folk
  • he hasn't gone dancing more than twice
  • and he's never been to a club, or a bar, or festivals or parties
  • anywhere that people dance
  • reclining, i watch his skin slip away
  • guided into hiding under plain cotton, dr...
sep 24 2020 ∞
sep 29 2020 +
  • my body takes no prisoners but myself
  • wire-built ribcages and incandescent veins
  • glowing like reflective panels
  • my body takes no prisoners but it takes refugees
  • takes the needy, the cold, parting the flesh of my abdomen and
  • allowing the build-up to weigh heavy like rocks inside my groin
  • shelter doesn't count only for it benefits someone other than myself
  • fingerprints against my lower intestines, mugs on the desk, newspapers i don't read
  • a dark bedspread i save for the most special of occasions
  • which have since become regular occasions
  • monday, tuesday, wednesday
  • my body takes no prisoners
sep 29 2020 ∞
sep 29 2020 +