The Taxidermist’s Wife
You spread me like silk, like night you want to cut the stars from. I have nowhere to hide, my hide, fresh pink and prepped. Once, you called me pretty. You pounce, prick of the knife, point carefully separating skin from sinew. You, sir, know how to gut a girl. You slice through everything I ever wanted to be, leave only lungs wrapped in dark fur, soft tissues, tendons. You don’t see me, you see the schema of a body, skin to be arranged, put on display. You only want things you can touch, say here and here and here.