the sexy femur

who knows how many bones lay beneath the sea. there’s a fish swimming
round and round my femur, when skin was there he said i had nice legs
who knows how many children the escalator has eaten, i do not wait,
i walk up the escalator when i can, maybe that is why i have nice legs
who knows how many landfills are made up entirely of scratch-off lotto
tickets, i used to go dumpster-diving behind the dunkin donuts, my legs
sticking straight out–here i hit the jackpot, i saved you a chocolate
one. i look at pictures of myself when i was a girl, how skinny my legs
were, thin as fish bones, how i didn’t know that men could (and would)
like them, that they were something someone would want to touch,
now whenever a man grips my leg i just think of the bone inside, hip
to knee, flesh stretched over (i suppose in an attractive manner)
and though it may be the longest bone in my body, don’t think you’re
going to go that length because behind that scratch-off there’s only
a hand waving goodbye.


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