consider the whole of me to be a house
with newly washed floors, kept clean enough to
make your skin go tight and sting with the health
of it. consider the entirety of my being
to be wendy darling, to be
that delicate field of want. i am the louvre with
my legs crossed at the ankle,
i am the angkor wat wearing your thick smell
consider me to be a place so undisturbed that
grass has grown over the welcome mat and swallowed
it back into the earth. and you, as your own self, as captain hook,
as cortés with a creased collar, walk into
the smallest doors of my body with your feet
chapped. you peel a space between my lungs and keep your
mouth tilted towards my throat. every small
touch feels as if i am
like i am watching honey rot.
consider my body to be the apartment lease you do
not pay. the place where girls
rode the elevator smiling and became
buried alive, their teeth still flashing
like neon signs.
Imaani Cain is an emerging writer from New England. Her work is forthcoming in or has been published in Talking Writing, cahoodaloodaling, and Gone Lawn.