your fingerprints are all over me

ridges and valleys overlapping

into an oily, woven fabric

you made me by pressing

a wad of clay against your knee-cap

shaping me into a bowl

that could hold whatever you might pour in

and then you painted me

in primary colors

with harsh black lines in between

you don’t care for smudging

or blending, or blurring edges

you made me hollow inside

so that when you pursed your lips

and blew

sweet song would whistle out

of my mouth

like corn syrup

there’s nothing like a man telling you he wants to lick honey off of your nipples to put a tingle in your knickers…just saying…

reading Gone With the Wind as an eleven-year-old left me in awe of this passionate, brave woman who instantly became my role-model, leading me to place an inordinate level of importance on my waist measurement and the angle at which i held my chin…