Do not seek your sanctuary in the stem of my throat
or curve of my spine.
Altars aren't made of flesh and blood.
You search for the divine feminine
or the shelter of mama
in me.
You steal my softness and leave me cold
Till I'm the marble you've imagined.
A statue for the pedestal
of some half-assed goddess.
Shave and scrape away the alabaster,
fashioning me into something you've fantasized.
I destroy myself for this empty-bellied romance,
vaporous as cigar smoke,
as disposable as a used condom.
