Submission

I have a blue edge.
Traced with my fingertips,
the nature of this shape eludes me
my heart, my liver.
Some meaty visceral thing,
quivering,
wet and pulsing,
has lumped itself out of my person
and offered itself to you.
Some primal part of me,
dear God,
something I need,
an offering untouched by curved blade,
a piece I cannot
live without.

Like a stain
on the tablecloth
my vulnerability spreads
widening
like a whisky bloom
from a tumbled glass.

It opens across the floor,
and I sway as if at the edge of an abyss.

Go easy with me,
make light your touch.
My skin is gossamer.
My soul visible.
I am in your hand.