Sometimes I scrawl lines across my flesh,
black and blue and long and stretched out
drastically: a mixture of cooked and uncooked
spaghetti sticks, solid and straight, or limp
and soggy, a pretty pattern on my skin.
I pull elastic taut and let the pain of the rebound
envelop my senses. Caging my insanity,
and releasing my words in secret. I'm a pretty,
pretty prisoner, babe. Won't you be my key?