We sat across the table. 
he said, cut off your hands. 
they are always poking at things. 
they might touch me. 
I said yes. 

Food grew cold on the table. 
he said, burn your body. 
it is not clean and smells like sex. 
it rubs my mind sore. 
I said yes. 

I love you, I said. 
That's very nice, he said 
I like to be loved, 
that makes me happy. 
Have you cut off your hands yet?