she is paper doll thin and as restricted
as a geisha – vile as the bile that floods
through her body (too unruly to linger
in the liver). she pisses on sniped
cigarettes, never hers, and wipes
her cunt with used tissues.

stuck in her filth, she remains
closely controlled in attendance
of her prized vicious masochism
and a love of literal heartbreak at
the hands of her sacred sadist.

slashed lips and sliced hips, she
waits for the war his vast hands
pledge to convey across her thorny,
derelict face. wrecked and ruined -
she waits, and sweetly imagines his
fist cut on the thistles of broken
bone around her smiling eyes. she
imagines her feebly thrown up hands
to stop him forming a desultory
prayer to know something more –
anything more than this.

she aches for it.