a new place to be stored when you sleep:
space that makes skin taught,
air-broken flesh shade of stop sign,
you do not stop.
I am kept inside bathtub drain
when you eat, chin familiarizes with knee caps,
toes with glutes fingers to shoulder blades
chest thighs introduce yourselves –
like a paper crane creased to stiffness.
once you left me sitting stove-top
pink-soft skin needing days of licking.
There are six drawers beneath counters,
insulation spills into your closet shelf,
leaves me glittered with glass.
Your thumb smears shards above my eyes.
A number can always be cut in half.
you say, one body should be no
different, feeding me
down the neck of your beer.