You, with your long back
and curved neck-a swan
with no song,
you ask me if I am a woman.
I blubber, I stutter
and pour sand on your words
to hide them from
seeing me.
You, raw and aching
like pressed flowers
between leaves of books
ready to be forgotten-
you I cannot look at
without bruising.
Me, coiled and staring
am ready to be bruised.
Bruise me won't you please.
