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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