Pristine

By Katie Gene Friedman

I’m flattered by the care

you put into preparing

your body for my use.

The hours women spend

primping for men.

The exfoliation, hair removal,

nail filing, frizz smoothing,

lipstick application—procedures

to wipe away our human

fringe and refine our surfaces

into impeccable

doll parts. You put us all to shame

when you go spelunking

in your darkest cavern for me.

I imagine you kneeling

on your bathmat, cleaning

yourself out for me, trained to follow

your own commands. Knowing

my nose is going to be wedged

in your valley, my tongue parting you,

to make way for my weight

pushing in. I want to see those intimacies,

those in-betweens, like an air brushed

photo in progress, the sour of your breath

in the morning, the grit of sleep rubbed

from your eyes. I want to inhabit

the transitions that are supposed to be

behind the scenes.

I want to see you groveling

and disgusting and fully

human before you are pristine.

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Katie Gene Friedman (she/her) is a queer, invisibly disabled high school dropout and healthcare worker, who enjoys musing on the indignities of having a body. Her nonfiction chapbook Foreign Body is out with Future Tense Books. Katie’s words appear or are forthcoming in Foglifter, Peach Mag, Portland Review, Maudlin House, Hobart, and elsewhere. On social media she goes by @ValleyGirlLift.