White Thighs

Look down at my leg as I write,

so white, so bruised, so capillaried.

My thighs tell the story of ill-fitting shorts,

bad photographs, insecurities,

ownership, a vice-like grip,

you: one among many,

my selectively promiscuous ways.

A warm home for kittens, a way

to hold others’ kids, while I wait;

always waiting, for my own cats

or progeny, my own blood-vessels to be

worth something more than bruising and

keeping my own breath alive.

 

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