tight enough to hear my heartbeat in its seams.
Sir’s scissors slid up my thigh,
cold bite tracing the vein,
a slit opening like a whispered threat.
Safety pins hold the wound shut
for now.
The hem’s been hacked raw,
frayed strands kissing the tops of my stockings,
air licking skin that should be hidden.
Three shots of Chivas burn through me,
liquid courage, liquid sin.
I lean in close enough for you to feel my breath,
close enough for my lips to graze your ear,
and I say,
Some women wear lace for beauty.
I wear it to watch men bleed.