My memories are blue jeans, faded
and fraying in the stomach line
where I've bent so many times to be ill
the kind with holes where you'd least suspect
not in the knees from overuse
but in the crotch from sex abuse
the kind with peepholes in the pockets
and splits showing dimpled thighs in reverse
like my mouth always filled with pearls
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem