You want me to do what? You want me to twist these scars from your careless blade into something that pleases you? Yes, of course, just allow me one moment to pull from within myself what fresh tender I can muster to bring any kind of give to the crater you carved into me.

You took. You took recklessly, impetuously, righteously. I had plenty, didn’t I? You DESERVED what was mine. After all, you contributed to this bounty, did you not? Plunder was your just desserts, and how. You. Dined. Scooping great handfuls of the shine in my eyes, the frothy cream of my child skin- I was fucking d e l i c i o u s wasn’t I?

It’s easy to live around it, these scars. Meta//physical, they don’t have to hurt, but now you want what from me? You want me to be pretty? For you? You want. The way they always do, you fucking want and I owe it to you. Am I correct? Have I got this right? You want me to rip this battleground open and exhume the dead. I am what for you? Fertile soil choked with roots, just churn this up and now I’ll fruit for you?

I am only ever food for you. Another hungry child moaning appetites into my Frankenstein body, my black mouth, my sideways smile. I am pink and trembling, gangrenous and rotting, and I am to be fruit for you. The thick, sweet resistance of peachflesh against your captor’s teeth spilling the sick bitter of bilious liquor into your wastrel’s mouth. Surprise! You want.

I am poisoned and poisoning, but yeah, I can do it for you. I can turn this earth and be new for you. Crawl up from the dirt with nascent pearling skin, the rot of my survival clothing me in history, come see me fruit. Come reach your hand into me, take a mouthful of your desperately wanted ‘New,’ all this sweet poison I’ve got for you.