You like to speak in maps

--Francine J Harris

All your paths are me and after the crush 

of the ink and your hot breath, heaved weight, hunched spine I slink 

unnoticed to the tray, grab the steel, 

scrub until the skin is rust is red.

Water between my legs, pale till clear for lack of salt.

The blood could fix it, so I invite you back, even when I don't. 

Six months from now I will pack on the weight: pound after pound to cover up

what the wool couldn't cleanse, because 

if you can't see me, you can't hurt me. And if that fails then

if all you see is disfigured, you'll choose to hurt someone else.

Which guilt is uglier? Which leg is bloodier after you 

turn me over and begin again? The mattress bows, there is a stain next to the ceiling fan, how? 

The floor creaks, my hips speak back, a vain epileptic shock. 

The windows turn their pale faces inward, we are reflected unto ourselves, and I 

wish we could take the grate to my face.

How ugly do I have to be, to be safe? I think 

I will find out.