He does not know that I am disinterested
he is only interested in
filling, making nauseous work like
a dog finishing every scrap
in the bowl long past
the pains of hunger.
He does not know that chasing words
coy smiles and hands gently pulling wrists
is not a filling meal
that I am a person,
not a prize to be won
but he is a subway car
and sometimes the hands trailing down
my stomach are only tender because
they know what to do when they reach the bottom.
He wipes his soiled mouth on a napkin and makes
sweet artistry of me with his eyes
because he knows that I am the model
the rough draft
the fine collector’s item.
So I wipe my mouth with the tablecloth
and make a bridge with my knuckles
a skyscraper with my thighs
flesh homes and a pumping gurgling heart
teeth like beautiful bricks
because I am the fucking architect.
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