I Am Not A Cow Or A Couch Or A Flower

I was scraped out from

The inside of a person,

Fleshy blood and bone, insistent.

I felt you sew your promises

Into the pudgy rolls of

My fingers.

My name was never Mary.

There was no stained glass in

The hospital. Swaddle me

In blankets, hit me to make

Sure I can feel it.

And to add: my blood was blood

You lied. It was not tainted.

Why must my body be

Dirty or sacred?

Fine. Go ahead.

Crucify me.

Martyr the parts of me furthest from God.

Throw me up there

On the cross and I’ll

Be your Judas.

Make my body your dirty sin

Because what am I

Besides a slutty dress?