Cold aluminum filigrees, like lace, 
bend and twist in pretty patterns 
across my arms, looking for all the world 
like lady armor made for the modern age. 
Yet it pinches, wears down marks, 
leaves scratches red as the stains 
in Liz Bathory's linen-lined tub 
as I lay here, for now unbroken — 
forever, save I never move again. 

He sculpted this suit for me 
after he sculpted me. 

Preview from my upcoming 2023 collection The Soul Without A Summer