says her pussy tastes like Pepsi-Cola.
Years of salt and strain have feathered mine
into a canyon bearing blood.
Once a week, he feeds me through the door,
porterhouse steak sliced sideways,
glass of milk sweating beads of ice.
I sleep wound in an American flag,
mountains outside the crack of window
being embalmed in moonlight.
If I was not born to die,
I was born for this.
To give whatever he demands,
be it a little toe or my whole body,
until the bedsprings break
and my final spells have been cast.
About: Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, Winter Tangerine Review, Electric Cereal, and more. In March 2013 she won a National Gold Medal for her poetry collection and a National Silver Medal for her writing portfolio in the 2013 National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Her work can be found at writingsforwinter.tumblr.com.