FROM THE FLOOR THEY CAN'T HEAR MY BEGGING

These women love me because they can imagine crushing me to death. I’m weak. I'm an animal accessory. Sometimes, for fun, they pinch the loose skin on my back and crane me up to the ceiling to better observe my stupid body, dangling me over the concrete. My bones feel impossibly brittle in their massive, shapely hands. I have to curl into myself or I’ll shatter and die. The warmth of their skin and the vibration of my spine makes me come. To wash me, they stand me in the corner and spit on me all in a row. I come again and again until the firing squad has dragged me back down to the floor with the weight of their saliva, sputtering uselessly in my own failed children. I deserve it. Then they wash their hands.