we are the ones
We are the ones he’s put his hands on. We do not know each other. We may share a subway car and brush our coats too hard. We may even have looked too long in the elevator. At ourselves. At each other. We’ve stared at mirrors and forgotten where our bodies began, forgotten we were in public. He has said we are not the normal. Has he said that to everyone? He has asked us to hike up our skirts and he hasn’t meant it as a question, he has asked us if we were okay and he has not cared about the answer. Some of us may be dead, but our bodies have still been held and tugged on and pressed against the parchment and made to feel like meat. Some of us have given up eating animals. We weren’t certain why, but the flesh began to taste like flesh. It was familiar. Some of us lick our wrists or bite down too hard because we’ve learned to confuse our bodies, we’ve had to learn how to distract pain so we can pretend it has dissolved. It does not dissolve. It will not dissolve. But sometimes, we’ve found it feels good to fool ourselves.