Pose. Posed.

There is a picture above the bed. 

She is a judge, and a ruler, and a cunt. 

A witch.

She is dressed in a corset that she spills out of. There is no shame in her face. There is only pride. I am a child. I get dressed in the corner so that she cant’ see me. 

There is a picture above my bed. 

It has been 3 years now, and I am in middle school. 

She, the picture, is just a picture, except that she is a model. 

She is a guide. 

I push my pre-adolescent breasts together to make cleavage. I leave marks that my mother asks about. The picture is silent. 

There is a picture above my bed.

But now I have my own breasts, and my own corset to spill out of. 

I practice looking haughty and untouchable. I press my leg out of my skirt and flex my thigh. I am skinny. I look nothing like the picture. 

I am unworthy. 

There is a picture above my bed. 

I am an adult, legally and physically and I have all the same problems. 

I should understand her now, but she taunts me more than ever. 

I throw a shoe at her, with the permission of a glass of wine. 

She doesn’t duck. 

Fuck her. 

There is a picture above my bed.

It nearly fell while we made…love?

She might have sneered, had I cared enough to look up at her. 

If I had snuck more of peek

The peek, however short, granted her approval, and so I come. 

There is a picture above our bed. 

My husband does not approve, but she insisted.

She has not aged. Her countenance does not cower.

Our bodies are indistinguishable from each other

But our faces are barely related. 

There is a picture about my bed

She knew. She knew all along and she tried to tell me

She would last, he would not. I stretch out on my bed in all directions

My corset flung to the side

My hair undone, my face, unapologetic

Me, the cunt, posed for a picture.