By k.r. taylor

eyes meet me often
but hardly ever meet my own
they seer into expressions of my chest
or slight outwardness of my hips
anywhere but my eyes
despite their blue hued significance 

lips against mine
before hands ever intertwined
how humiliating to be
devoured before truly admired
my skin is soft, my nails are polished
and they are so neglected
blame it on my lips’ cupid’s bow 

relating more to murdered girls
than the ones in romcoms
for i am half dead already
haunting and haunted

apologies spill out of my mouth
overflowing with guilt
saying sorry in parking lots
for not wanting to let his hands wander
the first time ever meeting me
saying sorry like the blame is mine to hold
in hands still unheld

exfoliating, scrubbing myself raw
at every boy and man’s touch
knowing i’ll never be clean
in a world so dirty
so permeated by their breath

a man called me art
and i cried the whole way home
literature is forever 
the characters are always in present tense
we still stare at paintings 
made by a man lacking an ear
art never truly vanishes
and i long for the day i do

learning about sylvia plath
knowing her words are mine
that her pain has followed generations
all the way to my ribcage
understanding the way vacant bell jars
and unwanted tulips lead to 
warm suicide notes and carbon monoxide
to becoming a martyr
for anguished women
vanished women