The ache in my belly high up into my arid womb. Just when I was beginning to think this body was growing on the orange tree in my mother’s backyard, you forced the fruit off the low-hanging branch, took a bite, your meth-stained teeth tearing through my fragile flesh to find the body rotten all the way through, foul and reeking, oozing with filth and rot. Bloody and mangled, violated, shaking, and unable to breathe. Who eats fruit with a hand wrapped so tight around the flower that the petals turn to pulp? I couldn’t even see your face, and you tell me that I was the rotten one. My body has been leaking for four days, and I ate pesticides to prevent having to raise your daughter alone. The woman at the hospital told me I am not alone, and I also know mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, and that only about 20% of anorexics make it, but these textbook statistics don’t keep me warm at night when I’m lying awake trying to pretend I’m in outer space or anywhere outside of the rotten-to-the-core body that now belongs to you. You saw every scar, every piece of jewelry, every tattoo, and shaved, unshaven bit of flesh. I was nothing/(more than) a vehicle for your masculine pleasure. I don’t know if the bleeding will ever stop.
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