for the man who stares from his window

No - do not presume you know me
beneath those crumpled white sheets
you dream of.
For I trembled already,
spoke broken, red vows
from the scent of memory.

The sway of these hips were not
designed for you.
The eyes on this face know too much
grief. No,
no,
you do not know me.

You were not there when life was
stripped from my womb: beautiful,
bloody, and screaming for these breasts;
they were not made for your lips.

So do not pretend through
the panel of your glass
that you are a standing conviction
and I am half a heartbeat removed from
forbidden.

No,
you cannot know
these bones.