savior

i try to exist, to burn these eyebrows,
edit where you were born, or
how tall are the bones in your arms.

skin is a fur hide, shady dealers
lend me their ears--

a man is there,
he watches with the light on
as you take off your dress,
& this is why he says he loves you.

postcard with a picture of some random
art museum.
i hate when i know these things.