ribbon positions
They pull my shoulders back
with a taut snap, slide between my lips
to expose smiling teeth
and gag any cry of response.
But now I think: what if I sliced open my palm,
fished for a loose thread,
and pulled them all out of me?
Would they look lesser
as a soaked, bloody pile on the floor?
And what of the thin pathways left behind
all that hot, ungoverned space?
I think it just might prompt the unravel
of my gift-wrapped heart,
my pretty bow-eyes,
my scissor-curled fingers,
until there is just shapeless,
puckered skin,
refusing to remain
in position.