I was a mess on your floor last night.
My clothes a flat shell of myself, not
even dignified enough for a snaking
metaphor. Shirt melted to belted jeans
to socks halfway between (a conduit to)
denim and boots.
A police chalk artist could not have
outlined this demise so well.
I knew then there is more to me
than this. I knew all
you saw was the mouth above the
floored t-shirt, the breasts
once propping it
lifelike, my skin another shell
you had as little interest in as
the vestments peeled and discarded,
so much potato and apple rind. But
content with the outerness, any
juicy inner sinking teeth nutrient rich
blood and guts and dreams and screams
you turned from and
gave your face to the wall.