Ghosted.

Honestly, I’m a bit satisfied

that your beer belly

came back with

vengeance . . .

And, I’m not sorry that

I don’t feel

[not in the slightest]

guilty.

No, not after you used

the callous of your veins,

your “generosity”

as woolen clothing,

[hiding your teeth]

to coax my spine into an arch,

a curve, gasping,

a sigh that said

you wanted me.

And, honestly, you could have

just told me: [I am small but

I am not weak —

my bones withstood

wolves before

you.]

I was a project

you could work

between your fingers,

clay, malleable to the warmth

of your hands

worked without a sense

of responsibility.

Honestly, I would be lying

if I said I was [even mildly]

unaware.

Sometimes, you think

you want something

so badly

that you’re willing

to bend, fold into a shape

only similar

to your true

form.

Hoping the hands sculpting

will look over

your new body

and decide it’s

lineaments

worth wanting.