bukowski wrote about being drunk and dirty and
terrible to women so on the
that he was calm and curled in her sheets,
an 8 o'clock shadow pressed to her cheek
it would be a pleasant surprise.
we do that,
lead you to believe that our words are skin
and give you the ugliest of them-
old turtle shell poems.
then we roll over, show you the pink underside of our bellies
when you're in the bathroom,
crying over us.
[unzipped my wrists and pages fell out.]