This Flesh, My Flesh

I am porcelain cracked under years of weather stain
lesser aged than the listless beasts at my feet;
those blemishes which their fur in clever hides.
But tolerable these moles, these freckles, these scars,
to the spider veins who have built a home
on this rugged unpolished terrain
that you lay your cheek in sympathy
for all that could have been;
if I had just drank the milk like I was told.