I had stolen some varnish, dipped my hand like paw into the
varnish pot and smeared myself. Treacle, steaming treacle
sponge. Covered my cracks, cover my tracks, I thought if I
glossed over the bloody nose, the bloody mouth, the bloody hole
you would take me, you would let me come back.

I travelled miles with my aching little slit. Do you remember
when we did it on the floor? When my Dad punched my cheek
because he heard us? This was before the varnish and the
slippery surface that I've been buffing to shine so much. So much
you can look at me and see you. See your face in mine, related,
your kin, your kind. So you can know what it feels like to feel like
this for you, the way I do. It will hold you down under hot water
and when you gasp for air it will scald your throat.

Before the varnish, you use to love licking my cracks, pretending
to heal them only to then smack me across the face and break
them back open. Remember the rope, the wax, the chlorine and
the salt. The hot leather and the damp sand. The brick wall, the
tiled wall, the stone wall and the book spines. Remember my
sobbing, pleading with my mouth and you pushing my head
down further and further? Remember your rings caught in my
long hair as I bobbed up and down like a buoy in the water.