You spread me like silk, 
like night you want 
to cut the stars from. 
I have nowhere to hide, 
my hide, fresh pink 
and prepped. Once, 
you called me pretty. 
You pounce, prick
of the knife, point 
carefully separating 
skin from sinew.
You, sir, know how 
to gut a girl. You slice 
through everything 
I ever wanted to be,
leave only lungs
wrapped in dark fur, 
soft tissues, tendons. 
You don’t see me, 
you see the schema 
of a body, skin 
to be arranged, 
put on display. 
You only want
things you can
touch, say here
and here and here.