All I want to do is lay, spine pressed
to floorboards and have my feet look up
at his heart,

but it’s not a heart, really;
it’s more a spark plug
with heat that expands my pores
and lets him in
quickly, like a small explosion

on ignition. His words can cause a chemical corrosion
as he spits wet air at my iron eyelids,
folding vowels tightly in the creases
of my clenched hands,

I can scrub myself until raw,
pluck his letters out, like eyebrows
and scrape the rust from my cheeks
with a red-handled chisel
from my Fathers tool shed,

and I’m hidden in there, crouched,
with head bobbing slightly
above the windowsill. My ankles quiver
like the sound of ‘be quiet’
as Mum pegs out white towels and underwear
that used to match me

before he kissed my cheeks like the sun
and made my freckles rise
along with a new part of me.
Hungry, ugly --

and I keep buying new loofahs
to help clean myself up

but I still feel like Monday morning
every day of the week.