Masculinity climbs her stomach. Vines of hair she doesn’t give a shit about showing in public. Cut off shirt, electrocuted hair, where she’s from tweezers and wax are as hard to come by as a good meal. Her boyfriend doesn’t care, tracing his finger along her richest vein. She lets herself grow, skips breakfast and lunch, not because some fashion mag tells her to, but because hunger is accepting a rich man’s garbage. Have the chicken bone he’s scraped with his tongue. Suck it until it’s smooth, until your teeth polish the marble, until you reflect everything we consume.
Don’t ask her where she got that scar, the one under her cheek. Don’t compliment her sunken bones, her 23 inch waist. Don’t tell her it’s beautiful.

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