These days, I find myself in cotton robes,
arms stuffed in straight-jacket sweaters,
deodorant lining my untanned skin.
The dust of my porcelain tears stains my pillow white,
and I spend nights circling my imperfections
with a chlorine pen.
You tease the bleached bones I show you,
so I push them underneath the covers and let
you batter beauty into bed sheets,
shamed hands still pinned to my side.
I've never loved a man before
for who I had to turn off all the lights.
