from jenna to jeffery, 5 am

if i were the last girl
standing
on a sea of ice and foam,
if my skin were a flame,
if the dirt on my fingers
was so evident and obvious
and ugly and terrible,
would you dare to call me
beautiful?

if i was one of many women knocking
on the wooden cross of
your midnight door
my tremble voice just one of many voices who,
sounding like water boiling in the kitchen
spilling over onto the stove,
whispered your name sweet into your ear,
would you look at me different,
because i can't?

if i am one body
entertained on hazy streets
on certain nights of the week
at certain times of the night,
if mine is one of many bodies
held so tight like you mean it
please do not touch me,
or if you must,
please just call me beautiful.
and pretend like it's true.