He hit her, twice. Thursday, I
met a girl who lost something.
She still rubs her molars warm
eleven days later. Her
biceps tensed against the drywall,
but did not flinch. Where did she
go? Juiced, her sternum hides a
hypocrite. But she insists
he was right to say: “Don’t feel
that. It’s a love tap.” Dizzy
dove lost her muchness and I’ve
never been more disappointed.
I watched her form in her stale
blanket cocoon. She is a
pillaged bookcase. The first scoop
was dislodged from her shelf
in August. Cliché Model
Pickup Line said she cannot
really be a word lord
because her body is better
in a rouge window display.
Seven more cookbooks were snitched
because her frosting disappoints.
“Don’t look like that.” The order
is that she must be sexier.
Cut her hair for… him? Never
mattered if she liked it smooth
like coffee. On Thursday
the last cuff was coiled on
her wrists while she watched.
Her consent was not given
for inferior status.
Her screams were never heard.
I watch her homeless shelves grow
stretchmarks. I refuse to know
her, but I will kiln my muchness.
Good Fruit 