First Poem of September

No, I have never known when to walk
away. I want you to hit me. I want you
to leave me alabaster pale and ink
smeared and

Tattered (there are some things my
father cannot fix)

The phlebotomist had trouble finding my
veins; they are tangled under corroding
sinew. Could you please draw me a bath of
poetry? No bubbles to hide my bruises, no
sugar

scrub to exfoliate, the water is always too
cold – I am left to wonder if you are capable
of even this simple task

Quiet now, as I dissolve to words
I cannot watch the water drain out of
the claw foot tub. Or else, I fear,
I too may slip through