If I started with the words He made me—
not like He created me,
not like With my clothes off, you can still see his thumbprints
in the clay that became my skin.
No. If I started with He made me
lick the taste of bullet
from the barrel of his revolver
would you use your body to guard my body tonight?
The roof has been ripped off and the stars refuse
to peel their stares from my bruises.
I didn’t mean He
as in God; I meant the man I traded you for.
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