He is pulling shoe laces through my skin
With his celestial fingers
To make the thread lift, recoil and tug
My already bruising flesh
And make a patchwork quilt
Of my sore body
He practices needlework and upholstery
And makes a masterpiece of my wounds
His hands play God at his own game
And beat him
And so he rips and grips my shell
Pulls stiff wrinkles from ribs
And dimples from hips
To make a more perfect me
In his own image.
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