By A. Benét
Bloated against curved porcelain,
slippery and anonymous, she floats
in tepid water the morning after.
The stale air of his finishing still lingers
on her skin. She is skin turned shallow,
overgrown with scabs she picks to mark
her body in permanence and she wonders
if her body ever belonged to her. Slowly,
she allows her flesh to pebble
as what was hot turns chill and brittle.
Broken quartz— she is silt perfumed
in sweat and regret. Her fingers prune
in the salted bath, ache
to tolerate a touch that doesn’t burn numb.
She is something adjacent to angel, giving life
to those who wish to forget they are death.
Submerged, her breath circles the top
blurs the reflection, leaves it angled and narrow.
She always desired an audience
and now, levitates to see herself:
drenched and sunken,
heavy-lunged and loose limbed.
She no longer yearns to be owned,
to be easily handled. She savors
the absence of rough, breathes in
the water made holy from her arousal,
holds it at the top, releases into lakebed,
and watches it settle at the bottom.
A. Benét is an emerging poet who loves literature and has a weakness for coffee and the color of burnt clay. Her work is featured in FEED, Last Leaves Magazine, The Hunger Journal, Celestite Magazine, and The Hyacinth Review. You can find her on Twitter @benetthewriter.
