She knows her appeal comes in the smallest ways:
the creases in her instep in those shaded gray shoes
that look as if she drew them in with charcoal and fingerprints herself.
And the bruise on her smooth shaved leg, the size of a hand
and the shape of her heart, turning cold purple like copper beech leaves.
It's in the fall of her dress over her back, never stopping
because there's no line where a line should be, like the peeled skin of a peach.
And the cold muscles of her thin neck, tensed right down
to her curving collarbone, so breakable and so strong.
It's in the curl in her straightened hair, mixed in and dizzying,
the olive in her drink. It's in the eyeliner dripped from the sharp
corner of a bloodshot eye, black and sticky and wet, like oil spilled,
her tears are worth gold. And after two hits of smoke
she's falling all over herself and you so that her feet can't touch the ground,
her legs are all around you, her back is to the floor and her neck is in your mouth;
her hair is tangled and her drink is on her lips, her eyes are bright but hazy,
and she's your latest kill.
(You can only see the blood in the smallest ways:
the veins sharp in her eyes, the juicy juice red of her tongue).