Eeks mark the spot where I once stood
under the shower’s needles, blood-red
dye from my hair running in rivulets
through dried volcanic mud tight on my cheeks.

Inked in: a pound-sign for a tramp stamp,
hashtagging myself criss-cross to show I’m it,
I don louche lacings and bows and snaps,
finding each tight and tender trap-

ping of my manufactured allure
a spear-lined pit that instead snares
me: for all my intricate cottons and rubbers
were ripped by force from earth’s tender nethers

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