I am
his favorite toy.
He plays with my
stomach, pretending
I am swollen
with a baby
((though, not his,
of course)).

He paints me
like a porcelain
china doll. I
finally feel pretty
beneath his hands.

I wish my feet
were smaller, more
delicate; I bind them
with elfish metal, so thin,
so gauzy, so much
stronger than I am.

He pushes on my back
to beckon forth all the
filth I've kept inside. I
vomit all my pain and
loneliness. It looks like
a starved baby, it's
neck broken.

He twines my hair
all around his cross. His
jesus thumps me on
the breast, decidedly hating
how I bare my body.
But he told me
to never be ashamed; he
praises his Christ but
disobeys behind the
"i-feed-hundreds" back.

"Oh, baby," he coos,
placing worms of
mud prize around my
pale fragile neck. "You know
that I adore you."

Oh, yes, I know.
I've got a scab,
looking like a
chrysanthemum blooming
across my back.
A bruise, like a
poisoned ocean is
roaring from my cheek.

Down on his knee,
he licks my belly
button, forcing my body
to betray me as
he lays me down
on needles to love.

Injecting his hate
to my very core, I
sigh lovingly, pleased
that he lets me know.
He never hides from
me, because I know
very well, in fact, that
he loves me the most.

He hands me a cig,
as we lay in the
foggy and steamed back
of his 70s car. He
tells me to suck deep,
or else I won't understand
why they talk the way
they do. About rebellion,
about the thrill of hiding from god.

He is my god,
So that means I
must rebel. I place
his little boys heart
tucked inside my cheek.
He'll never find it
there, because he
has forgotten. This
man of many is
nothing but a coward.