He's the character of man
who thinks himself kind
and generous
until it's all that he is—
a gentle touch,
a loving caress.
Prick and squeeze,
penetrate and hug.
A single finger.
Or sometimes, cuddle
then fool around with needles.
He was not my Adam,
but I was willing to share.

Pushing palms down my legs,
he feels the bumps and rolling
of my muscles where they'll bruise
and prickle with scabs.
Like mountains and valleys,
or skin cells and the empty
places filled with electrons.
A naked goose on a table
readying to be ready to serve.
The flames burn like Hell:
my own hell for my sins
of the flesh, of the white
blood cell, of the ivory
lace of virgins.
I've been undercooked for years now,
my skin too white for my blood.

I made myself this way
by the path of my veins
leading to the core of my body,
pooling liquid next to my liver.
He made me this way,
but he is good.
I am good, outliving
my purpose with muttered words
from someone else,
as I stop my organs and
my organs have stopped
my mouth from working
over the mesas and rivers.

I look out over the table
with pure, hazel eyes.
I can see white wine,
pale bread, wan fish
that I have refused to eat
with my hands and tingling fingers.
I curl my toes and rip flesh.

At the point where my sockets
are blind and reach out with nodes
of pulsing fever, as they're meant to see,
I care enough to shake under
his fist and stare.
I was supposed to see him,
when the final moment came,
but I blind myself with faith
in a lover who fakes sleep
as He removes my unborn children
one by one. I dull forever
in the 21st century.