Photography by Emily Kennedy

A thin thought
he pulls out of air, I float
unformed and free
until his pencil hands grasp
the hope of me
and draw my outline with their
leaden fingers. He paints me
hips and
thighs and
lips and I cry,
“touch me touch me
make me real!”
All day he draws until
touch dulls
so in his sleep I
file his fingers. He wakes
with pencil points
turned knives that
peel and
slice and
husk and
dice and I moan,
“shuck me harder, baby,
strip my shell and
steal my pearl.”