If I could, I would

remove every inch of skin 

you’ve ever touched, 

peel off my epidermis layer,

strip by strip, 

and bathe myself in bleach.

Even then,

I would not be clean.

Perhaps I should, 

lay on burning coals 

until my flesh 

liquifies,

until I am 

nothing 

but a pile of molten sludge.

Or

I could wade

into The Nile 

with weights strapped 

to my ankles

and let the crocodiles

flay the meat off my bones.  

If I could, I would 

unhear every lie you’ve ever told,

pierce my eardrums 

with a P.F. Chang’s chopstick.

The deceit runs red.

I’ll make myself forget every memory 

that we made together

by slamming my head against the wall,

cracking my skull 

into a thousand blackouts.

I could just sniff carbon monoxide,

the silent killer,

urging my throat to swell

and my lungs to burst, 

expelling your stale saliva 

from my being. 

If that doesn’t work,

I’ll chug windex out of a martini glass.

Can’t be much worse than Grey Goose

and an olive. 

You’ll love this one.

Picture me hanging from the ceiling fan, 

twirling around and around.  

A maroon stained neck,

rubbing against a twisted rope,

just like one of those dainty ballerinas,

think Swan Lake.

Watch 

the feathers fall.

A saffron glow emerges in the distance, 

breathing comes to a slow, 

and I have erased you completely.

Press 

the rounds of your knees together. 

Get low 

to the ground.

Allow your breasts

to graze the floor.

Brush your lips against the carpet. 

Open your palms 

and repent. 

Drape yourself 

in thick, weighty fabrics.

Pray away 

the tumultuous act 

committed in vain. 

It can be undone. 

It can be 

undone.

Mary did it, so can you.

Go down

to the reservoir. 

Submerge your tainted flesh.

Then, watch closely as stolen kisses dribble

off your spine.

Wash away the crimson stains

and cry out for redemption.

Flutter 

your lashes. 

Elevate the apples of your cheeks and bite down.

Laugh (if necessary),

Touch (when appropriate), 

but do not give in to temptation.

Your time

would be better spent

drooling over salmon dishes 

and cooing at caviar, 

that you won’t swallow.

Allowing your eyes to wander 

when the bill arrives.

Make him pay. 

Let finance

be your first base

and coition be your last.

Afterall, a financial transaction 

is as good an indicator 

of love as any.

Why you want to heal in the first place?

Bask in your shame, girl.

Expose your every limb.

Put that pretty organ on display. 

Hear them whisper 

 Tight. Soft. Wet

My dear, you are nothing more 

than an adjective. 

Unless, of course, 

countless nights of combing 

through bed chambers 

have made you weary.

Or worse, 

your abdomen has begun to ache, 

pained by the parasite

that you host. 

If nothing else,

ingest the small pale pills.

One here.

One at home.

That should kill it, 

no more physical evidence of your sin  

and so

it is done.

You are healed.