The judging eye

Beneath the thin shift of my red silk nightgown,

the one with the handkerchief hem,

the one you gave me on my birthday

that landlord look high in your eye,

resides my skin, my nakedness.

Spaghetti straps bisect my dichotomy

chafing my shoulder like a peculiar midnight sunburn,

the surface of my skin pooling a smooth lie.

Beneath

stacked between the sticky spiderwebs of my veins,

lies lay bundled.

I am a cracked and brittle terrain,

a testament to my own artfullness,

I conceal my flaws from the judging eye

with the clever glamour of gleams

and sheens bought with the coins and notes

I earn, then part with,

seduced by the wonders of marketing.

No matter the subcutaneous ache,

until I cannot conceal anymore

until the

ravens come to pick the flesh from between the

spaces of my toes,

until I bleed right through,

I'll pose here prettily for you.