i am dripping and draining
the vestiges of your words. i sluice the shadow of your fingertips
from my thighs and scrub at your lip-mark
where it shines, red as dawn, on my collarbone.
my body is the crime scene. my body is walking evidence of mummy issues,
and broken promises.
my body awakens, keening at the ache of my back after 90 minutes in the therapist’s chair.
my body creaks
and cracks and, like the gap between my childish teeth,
the space between who i was and i who i am meant to be is too small to be seen in a photograph; large enough, still, for me to be shy of it in public.
i carve myself a new body
out of the ashes of the old. this will be a house of steel and silk, blood frozen over the splinters of the past. it will be everything and you will not be there
to take a piece of my masterpiece for your collection of shattered people.
– t. bennett