Because I've grown content in the state
of being alone, because I look in the mirror
and see eyes belonging only to the shattered glass,
because I have grown too comfortable in this skin
that belongs to no one but me, I have asked
the man staring back at me through the fog
to place his hands snugly upon my chest
and press downwards until the air in my lungs
starts singing a hymn of praise. God punished Job
for being too comfortable with the way his skin
fit snugly over his bones; what could He do to me
for being content with the way I feel
lying alone in the bathtub, rubbing soap
in all the little crevasses between my toes?
No, better to preempt it and ask the man
in his dull black cape, to strike me first,
call out to him in my gravelly,
hungry voice, saying strike me down,
darling, strike me down
until I bleed. I deserve
no more or less. Then, by the time
he's finished, we can both
wipe off our hands and dowse
our mouths with cough syrup,
and pause for just a second
to look at each other's faces I
etched dimly in the foggy mirror,
before turning aside
to look at the clouds perched
in the unforgiving sky,
telling ourselves firmly
there's only so much spirit one body can hold.
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