How do you know this body was once yours
and who can say they own it now?

I've tried to make a home out of my skin
with pocket knives and gnawed nails--
Out of the punishment of bent knees
and the quiet silence of rib-cage jaws
when they chew you quiet like peanuts
or the wet oatmeal with dried apples. 
I've written my skin in sharpies,
black ball point pens, and apologies--
temporary teeth marks on the
wrist of a human who
is eaten each new morning like
a cherry cough drop by the
men who prep each square
centimeter of her flesh for 
surgery-- they all want a piece--
The butcher-- the clever-- the 
cherry cordial heart of a human
who doesn't know how many men
have owned her shoulders--
I've pulled out my own blood
like a rapier but I've only
ever cut my wrists like soup lids--
lazy and congealed my tongue
is the harnessed glory of a
the collection of men who have 
made claims on my clavicles 
and planted flags in my palms
to let me know that my skin has never 
been mine-- and I've had girls write
"love" on my arms like everyone
else but I have always felt like
a tourist to my own torso-- 
"And when did we get so tired
and when did we get so old" I'll 
say when I finally forget
what bananas taste like--but I 
can tell you that I know
there are places that the men
with the flags can't have and have 
not seen-- they will make pot roast
from the chicken-nugget silhouettes
of my thighs but I still have
my cheek bones. They don't know my
cheeks bones because none of them
ever kissed me like you
should kiss a piece of chocolate.  
I still have the stitches you know?
We all have to stitches from incomplete 
surgeries and anorexic acupuncture
When I name the men who own my
skin I don't mean people with
larger hands than mine-- I mean
the fingers that rummage under my 
skin like a strip-search every morning--
like a pick pocket-- like a centipede.
And I know I know I know it was mine 
that once-- that one time this body was
mine and I had no other fingers but
my own and I used to paint my nails
more patient colors like mauve
now I save purple for
the kidney bruises I keep
lodged in my throat. I can tell
you this body was once mine
and I can tell you I'm not the land lord--
this is not a renters game--
I am a border-- the indentured servant
to men with square calculators
who add me up add me up add me up
just to times me by two and divide
me by the square footage of my
femurs-- they have told me rent
is do but I've run out of
new ways to pay them.
Tell them I'll have it soon--
and for now I can offer them
what's left of a box 
of cherry cordials and
the collection of
things I've written above my knees.