The bruises have a way of accenting her collarbones
so you can make out by the sight of them
that the city is her only home.
They frolic this city with maps,
Her mind has sewn the streets together
she knows her way around.
The craters of her pockets, the pockets of her bras
She takes to food her plate
To clothe her back
To roof her head.
With this she survives the city. And its spectators.
Men love her.
They say they’ve never seen bone and flesh
so beautifully entwined.
But she doesn’t believe them.
she lets them love her in vain.
Then, without prior warning,
Weans them of her body
Starves them of her skin
Robs them of her stagnant conversation.
She forgets them.
And blue skies make way for dark ones.