gloves-off, she
leans on her back foot
moves fast and hides tired eyes
behind a battle-blue arm  

from a punch-bloodied mouth
she spills and spits words out on canvas
makes way for cool air- tries to
pacify lungs before they explode, calm
a heart that longs to rebel

she needs to feel loved, but can
be understood only by tracing braille-like-trauma
on her Vaseline skin-
and if she’s not out for the count
she doesn't keep still

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll trace every wound, grease
all her vulnerabilities
and the taste of forged metal
will flavour your dreams

she’ll dance with you watching,
a storm over canvas
and she’ll swing for those *******
like a silk-wrapped machine  

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll watch as each cut’s inflicted
then wait your turn to touch
to your hand she’ll ever-be Vaseline slick
or sticky with blood

she’ll hide vibrant colours behind
gunmetal hues but beneath careful fingers
her scars will tell truths- and
they’ll burn fire tattoos into your heart

wanna be her cutman?
you sure?

(you’ll wish dead every guy
has her over ropes or on canvas, but  
she’ll be eyeing those guys while
you’re fixing her up)