SLUT

Daphne Gottlieb

i die first
in every horror movie,
before the innocent boyfriend, the too-
curious best friend
and the foolhardy pal.
death comes blind fast
and easy, familiar as the top button of
my blouse popping open
and suddenly i'm an angel
on the cutting room
floor, wearing gore,
a blank stare, not much
more.

i do it over and over.
i can play
like this for hours.

sometimes i enter a dark
room and unbutton
my shirt, rock my hips
side to side
until the killer's music comes on.
then I button up
quick, laughing or
shaking, sometimes
both.

from the way i look
after i'm split open
you'd never know:
i was born a baby.
i still sleep
with my stuffed poodle.
her name is "tammy."
after my parents divorced, i wet
the bed for a year.
i want to be a nurse.
my favorite color is blue.

first kiss at 12,
first shame at 13,
first blood at 14.
skipped four years
of gym, skimmed just the tips
of my stepfather's
fingers, nothing more.
i never took my clothes off
for a doctor but my body
became a secret
handshake
all the boys knew
and i didn't.
the ghost story
made me a ghost.

now, at 16,
i only remember my own
skin when i am touched.
it makes me real
when i strip down,
take it off, find the edges of my body
through your eyes or under
your hands, against your skin.
it feels like death
every time you
stop.

there is nothing i can do
except open my throat
and say the word for girls
who are the ghosts of want:

"slut."
i'll take my shirt off
while you watch—
call it love
when the knife rips
through my ribs,
when the ice pick cracks
my chest, or however
it happens this time
but first

here's my prayer:
that what happens to girls like me
who die dirty, give it up
with a shudder like pleasure—
pray that when we're killed as martyrs
we get loved like saints.