Vene May

You hand me a permanent marker and
ask me about digestion
ask me to circle 

every part of your body
that’s supposed to feel 

some sort of pain when 

you haven’t eaten for six days

You sit there topless and waiting.

I think I want to stab you.
Stab you right in the gullet
with the marker let the ink show you
where the food is supposed to go.
But how can I stab a neck 

the size of my wrist
your breasts folded like doggy ears
across a crumpled page
where your stomach used to be.