CALL ME BELOVED

Maybe my body echoes my soul,
transparent, made of glass – but
don’t treat me gently. Grip me –
I want your fingerprints, your touch
smeared over my curves, carry that
smoothness of my body – all my fragility
cradled in your hands. Break me, if you
have to, if you want to. Hold my pieces.
Pour me out through your fingertips.