violation

I imagine laying
in a bed is much like
laying in a coffin, only
death holds you, like a lover
or like your uncle
when he visited
on the holidays.

When you got your
first boyfriend, he
shoved you down on
your knees, much tattered
from childhood's trials,
and said, "What else
are you good for?"

You complied because
you had no idea of
what to answer.

You think of
pressing your
spine against a ruler,
and gluing your mouth shut.
You once tried to understand
the dimensions of your body, as
if there was a cavern, a space, where
weakness, a fear to speak this,
resided. You thought of tearing
it apart, or drowning it in
the red wine that slid
down your throat
every Christmas
party. And you
would have, if
you'd found it.

You aren't sure
what violates you
more. The men who say
that they love you, or
the words in your mind?

We recycle,
bend our broken
toes and stand
on them, holding our
breath, ballerinas
hoping that a
sheet of glass
and two bottles
of vodka can
break the
fall.