We are whispering in his hotel room,

sharing whiskey beneath someone else’s sheets,

when he says, I like it when you wear my shirts.

They make you look pure. 

Laughing, I take another swig before going

to use the bathroom. There, bathed in yellow light,

I look at myself in the chipped mirror. 

Little girl with bare legs and a butchered tongue.

I should leave. I should go home, 

climb into bed, try to forget this entire thing. 

Instead, I climb back into his chest,

shape myself into one of his limbs and ask,

Take off my cheeks, suck on my eyes

till they’re hollowed out, and I’ll moan how you like.

Give me a new face to wear,

a new face to study. 

I so easily brand myself as yours

because I do not want to be mine.