They like you if you’re damaged. If the bleeding of your gummy guts makes them look clean.
I think I’m clean, hung out to dry like white linen shirts and silk sheets. But I know I’ll always be a mess to men who don’t understand the washing machine cycle of life.
To them, I’m like an inside-out grape. Like a baby’s throw-up – repelling but necessary.
They like you less if you’re so damaged you’re strewn about the salad bowl. Specks of blood in the fruit.
Berry-like clots aren’t as appetizing as tender conversations.
But I’m not that sweet virgin petal nor a roaring red rose. My clots aren’t enough yet they’re too much for the men who seek out fresh blood.
Yesterday you tried to open me – peel off the skin, gleam at the guts. The way children stare at spliced squirrels on the road. Enticed by the mess.
Today, I eat a bag of Funyuns on the couch and I soak in the scent of my own indifference.
Is my bouquet of blood and beauty too real? I’m good at being real – there’s always one sock that falls off the line.
The kitchen is clean but I’m still spilling. The washer is spinning but its dance was never for you.
The grape jelly in the fridge is rotting and it couldn’t care less about the person who wants to eat it.
