He moves close to her.
Try and tell me I’m beautiful.
They share heat,
let it leach through open mouths
while I freeze myself,
nitrogen spray fixed on my lips
like a spigot.

Try and tell me I’m beautiful,
a winter-rotted bulb
sinking in translucent tar,
watching the staccato world
ripen into fruit,
peeled and bitten.

Every morning I
daub my skin with porcelain,
manufacture my body within an inch
of my life,
on the picayune hope
someone will hold me tight
and keep me close
at least until they grow out of me.

I dare you to tell me I’m beautiful
when he trades girls like coats
for uncertain seasons,
and skips my hanger every time.
I am mohair. I am vinyl and unwanted,
out of style, so last year,
on clearance and unworn.

I am suspended in formaldehyde,
spicate, fossilized,
as the world watches me.
I turn tricks
for a few more seconds of its eyes.
I still feel them on me.

You tried to tell me I’m beautiful
and I couldn’t believe you.
Love came too late for me
to trust anything but what’s shown,
not told.