poem: 3/4 human and we don’t bruise easy

i don’t bruise

easy . you say this
with my bird-bone wrist
in your fingers
and i turn it
inside out
under the bathroom mirror lights. marks on my insides where the flesh is
white as snow ;

i saw it, once upon

a remembered sleepy

summertime / the dog

nipped at my fingers and

it’s lead
stripped my leg of its
brown

( look – speckled red
beneath
the covers )

and the dog ate my brown
lapping at summer green grass

her owner, sunburn bright

watched in horror and i didn’t

cry but now i

i think about
snow white and dashing
scarlet
on the front of cars / empty skulls, flowers in
my mouth / petals on the gum sockets. do you know that

we don’t turn
many colours on the outside / i have never

bruised, easy, you must

beat and beat

to turn my brown a little

black . you must whip

and strip me

down to

a blushing crimson-raw.

we don’t bruise

like you do all on the

outside / we are not

fruit in a child’s

palm we are hardy

like mother’s feet over the soils

and his bones

under the whip / child’s

belly swelling / cheeks

against officer boot / the sun-set

sinking light

in eyes unrisen.

¾ human, and we don’t bruise easy | talia b. ; @ragghearts

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