Men love the novelty of a wild girl,
a lifeless trophy of her stolen glory:
Doe-like glass eyes glued to a painted form,
safe to touch because you’ve sewn her mouth,
her skin on display after you sucked her life out.

I’d rather die feral with my feeble pride
than in the hands of men,
eager to tame me then take my skin.

Perhaps he did want to hold me,
when I once was warm and filled with light.
It’s a shame I could never tell
if he wanted to soothe me
or sate himself.