I lift the label of my book by Virginia Woolf
and underneath it says: “Kill me.” While feeling sorry I wondered
if it should be done.
         “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried latex,” Sally said,
before she left. My body sucks confessions into itself
and purrs.
         I want a language that refuses
         to give birth to itself
so I can use it to speak with. Thoughts
that stop repressing thoughts, ideas that press
         beautifully to the floor. I’ve bled
into border glory and watched one hundred bouquets
walk past today
we can grasp them. We can watch my hand open
         and close like a claw, like a flower.
They give us clean and sharp razor blades, you see,
         just in case.
I need a man to grope me, tie a rope around me
         and photograph me
like those Japanese children I admire.
Outside the tree bends into an apology,
         or a train station, and waits for something to begin.
Why have I got stretch
marks when my body hasn’t been stretched yet?
         I need a girl to stroke me, caste her love around me
         and disembowel me like the broken Barbie I desire.
How long? Actually they don’t speak.
I hear something but it is my own voice
droning, a darkened language, no one replies. I go further,
I bring them saliva posing and naked
blushes and it happens.
         But even I can see the smashed
heart peeking out through her mound of pubic
         hair and I am disappointed.
No one wants to make love to a broken heart.