No Man Made

You think of me as soft wet clay

malleable under the warmth of hands found flesh

delicate mounds for fumbled thumbs

to dig at and scoop out of

and a part of you that wants to add pressure

to see me twist and turn

and ooze the innards of me

those most private of places

between your fingers

losing bits of me in the grooves of worn palms

sliding over knuckles

scraped under nails with sodden sounds

muffled from getting out.

But hands like yours are cold

and I harden against you

against the demand of your offence

the passivity you wish of my mouth

I will not be bent double of position

to a patronage I do not recognise as the better

nor will I be sent into the fire

to kiln the labels you give me

onto this body that is of mine own making

I will not be placed among your collection

where you believe my only stature to be

silenced to someone who believes that force of want

will put me in my place.


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