I feel like I am fingerpainting but it’s not my blood…
it’s your blood. From my body… from your hips not mine.
I feel leftover marker bitings pool table felt carpet burns clean
the skin the knee elbow back of the shoulders the blades.
forgotten Emily Post’s journal has an impolite section:
to admit blood guts whelp the fetish black nail polish slick.
a freak from Psychopathia Sexualis (eat blood pudding) .
Then I awaken and the whole mattress is covered in blood,
so many colors inside me inside the oil slick interest me…
so I rip open my abdomen and I pull out a shirt,
a felt-tip marker and I draw something:
big, big circles around you now hard like eggs on your nipples