by Donna J. Snyder
On acrid airless nights
the desert sucks up all moisture
leaving nothing but crepe paper for skin
No pen to write across my back
No paint to disguise me and my fleshiness
with the sad clown mouth below the belt
I tell myself big girls don’t cry but I lie
My muse oils her black leather boots and straps
She could not give a shit
She wears a black leather fuck-off bracelet
with silver studs
and knows how to use it to good effect
Her rejections affect my moods
Me repudiated and left with nothing
Just this endless bitter day after pill
Each morning worse than the next
my bloodlessness
my empty belly
my withdrawal
my bruises
Not pretty at all
I lie wrapped in a soiled sheet
like Lazarus before Jesus came to the party
You can smell deadness filling my vacuoles
My tears are spines on cactus wishing for a good rain
Boston Poetry Magazine 
love!
Thank you, Sarah.
I love this
Thank you, Amy. I always hope a poem will elicit some sort of response, negative or positive, or else I feel that it’s just a pebble dropped into a canyon. I appreciate you reading it and your strong reaction, and that you took the time to comment. Thanks, again.
ps An altered version appears in my book, The Tongue Has Its Secrets.