nietzsche

Politics Of Cars.

Never waiting for a thank you
after the rain stops
and the blood congeals
in the corner of your shower.
The tile is crimson
and I am shredded,
peeled apart from your knife
like I was your apple child.
Your woman to destroy.

With hands of ice
and a quick mouth
you press your message
into my breast
and mark me as your survivor.
Your masterpiece.
I am no longer I.
I am she.
She without a name or purpose.

Since four nights
this chest has ached
like sunrise
and the scars are raised
like hardened lilac paint.
I can still feel your tongue
deep in my mouth
and your fingers
gripping the knife
as you sliced into my night sky.

This body was never yours.

Now it can never belong to anyone.