By Kendyl, age 17, Tennessee
I have burns on my hands,
received from the oven after removing perfectly golden pies
that I shall feed to you when the game is over
and your tie is loosened
after I have buried the children for the night.
I have blisters on my feet
from where the red pumps dig into my heels
after a long night of mingling at your office party
during which I was displayed rather than introduced.
You've beaten Tom from sales, for his wife is a plain thing with no appetite for socializing.
I have holes in my mind
because of your insistence that I could go back after we'd settled,
become a nice secretary or teacher's assistant
if it would make me happy
while still making peanut butter sandwiches and checking for fevers.
I have welts on my back
after a few too many beers
because I pushed you too far.
You beg forgiveness again with your candied voice and syrupy pet names
because, as always, you're longing for dessert.