I tart myself up. Porcelain below blood
red lipstick and corset. I can’t breathe,
but oh God, your smile, looking down,
approvingly, as you say, “Fucking sexy.”
Capillaries break and bust underneath,
they rush and eat at the absence of your palm.
Your fingers remove buttons, then boning
from my ribs. The lines are redder than smut.
“Slut”: I wear it like a hat. No, a balaclava.
As I rob all of the pretty words you’re used to.
They now are black and blue and pool
around your lips, bursting at the seams.
Telling me that I’m so bad to make you
feel so good. And take it, take it, take it
and like it. I, mouth open to take the
body, feel merry as I drown in it.
Jessica Sheets is a writer who denied that she was a writer until her words finally held her at gunpoint, forcing her to acknowledge the truth. She quite fancies terrible puns and Sylvia Plath, and holds a BA in English from San Diego State University. Her poems have appeared in Yay! LA Magazine, The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, and (soon) The Fem.