The cut lines my wrist like a
port-wine stain; turning into
bluets with the warring sun.
The kitchen tile clings to my
skin with the force of a thousand men.
I spread my legs like butter for the officer
who feeds me pancakes at 5am to keep me
from coding.
He fans my skirt out; peacocking, if you will.
A broken tooth is my bargaining chip.
Daddy says I mustn’t talk to strangers,
except for those he brings to my bedroom door.
I find their fingernails, upturned, in my cereal,
and I tell Daddy nevermore.
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