fabric

like their puppet, my arms are held up with pink sparkling threads:
at once my fingers cling to them and wrestle against
the handcuffs—can i rip my own hands off, i wonder?
for my sense of self is battered, torn
to pieces in a pile of burlap rags that shimmer, gleam with
grimy gristle that is made of my soul
i can’t stay here

choked by a feather boa and smothered in ruffles
the fabric winds around me, twisting, writhing,
leaves red marks on my skin like (carpet) burns
no, no, i didn’t do it i’m clean i am perfect i
grasp frantically at fragments of brown twine and
fall through the air that i’m still gasping for
i can’t breathe here

and my red face puffs up with the tight lack of air and
my neck pales and my dark eyes scream—beautiful
a cage of satin and chiffon binding me
in all the wrong places, but i am oh so pretty
separated from my mind/heart/soul lying discarded on the floor
this body is not my home for i have never known it

but they say, suppress your longing for denim and dirt
our softsilksoap will wash you clean, little princess
they say, it’s just fabric, pretty girl
and they break my ribs with the lacing
the best thing that has happened so far, i think and
eventually i won’t feel the pain anymore they say
so i lean into it and i let them splinter my bones
to find no heart inside