I'm done standing beneath a parasol
like an exotic coquette - traffic light flaring red
and green, alluring polished cars and hands
as dry as starfish, always one foot removed
from the bull's-eye of your desire.
Today I won't have footprints tattooed to my skirt
and a wristwatch registrated on my hips,
neither everything else encompassed in black
and blue against the backdrop of my clothes
like an exquisite piece of China, merely
because I was the spitting image
of your absurd bliss: the slave
that didn't want to tie her hands
to the dead-end of your bed, or
let you unceremoniously slice
at the nectarine between her legs.
Today you will smudge those lipsticked toothmarks
on your arm as if eczema, whilst the highest pitch
of my screams will become the soundtrack
of your nightmares, gnawing at your ears
till it reverberates into the complexity
of revenge, as you bang your head
against bars, begging for death.
Today you'll relive the torture
of tomorrow, and the days thereafter,
unscrambling the meaning of my suicide
beneath your truck tires.
So today you may drive on.
Pulverize my body.
Jail yourself.
