Here.

i wish you could see me. here. doing what you told me i could not do. bringing men to their knees with a kiss to their ankle or a breath to the nape of, oh, well, anywhere. from the first time i did it i knew i would be foolish, no, ignorant, no, wrong, to do anything else. he used to be the master, used to be the one i had to beg for food or shelter or relief — just a second outside, just a moment in the bathroom or oh, no, you bitch nigger and the loudest crack i ever heard, right in my ear but strangely distant, i imagine like a cannon boom a few miles away, then mmm warmth, at least blood is warm. but after i let him come into me, his piece like a dead jellyfish, his face like a contorted weasel, after i saw he was just like all the other men in the world and he saw me as i had never seen myself, a treasure, a cleopatra, a vixen, a woman, there were more breaths outside, more breaths inside, too, or behind the barn or sometimes just out in the field just before dinner, less holding the urine till all the insides were up in hell's flames, less blisters and headcracks and more food (just enough so i would know) and sometimes even a kiss, on the lips, like a lttle boy. give your fruit to the world, they say. i do, and mine is the most succulent.