“Woe to you… You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean.”—Matthew 23:27

VIRGIN TERRITORY

Bodyworker.
Your body, not mine.
My body’s slotted
into the designated white room,
your chosen present,
gift-wrapped
with the glossy illusion of consent.

My mind is aswarm
with instructions
it cannot comprehend.
My mind cannot be present.
I must disassociate
as I apply pressure,
knead tissue.

Anxious supplicant of flesh,
my strong, delicate hands—
hot, smooth stones
I weigh like options—
can only distract you
from the grim futility
of your quest.

Harem seeker,
curator of a cornucopia
of delights,
practiced unmaker of girls
you render nameless,
conceal in your private zoo
for a few hundred dollars.

Host with the most dirt
hopes our nubile flesh
will replenish his rotting mass,
return the virtue he squandered,
restore the purity he demands
by extracting ours.

I work hard to indulge,
to feed your hunger
for virgin territory.

Neither daughter nor lover nor sister—
not even your possession—
I am your altar,
your instrument,
burst and conveniently hushed.

Insatiate.
Endless rub downs
cannot soothe that muscle,
relieve that itch,
curb that craving.

Hey Goliath—
what bible story
do you tell yourself at night?