She is a glass doll
Stunning in the light, brittle lashes and lifeless eyes
Her slick curves, angles, cold to the touch
Until they’ve been greased with prints
Familiar hands know every line, could trace these planes in darkness
Drawing forth memory of each previous encounter,
All dalliances with dust and dirt forgotten as she is loved now by someone’s sticky hands
Wet with sweetness wiped from the corners of young lips
The kind of hands that are never clean,
That plainly show where they’ve been
Leaving trails of new care and old saliva as they trickle their way over her surface
Feeling scars feathered so carefully they were surely placed there on purpose
Perhaps in anger, or simply carelessness, nearly both the same
In their blatant disregard of her worth: you are nothing:
These cracks scream
To be so easily abused this way
But fingers damp from moistened mouths feel none of this.
They search eagerly instead for the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her neck
Reveling in the reflection of ecstasy on her face, recognizing an eye or lip
Claiming it, for now, knowing later she must be relinquished
And someone will have to wash her of the stains these filthy hands have left