Kristin Garth


When you write to me “darlin” I run a bath,
scalding and scented, flesh perfumed, punished
on your behalf. Far away masters have
local effects between the shorn sluttish 
succulent lips and the cervix.  You saturate 
me on the inside.  This flesh arid, clothed 
is duplicitous pride you would berate 
if you could see.  I am a beast you exposed 
obsessively until I learned to spurn 
humanity myself, to proffer pink skin,
a wet wishing well.  Conditioned to yearn, 
wait my turn until summoned again, 
with a prim presentation playing pretend —
just a trained animal, Pavlovian. 

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