Eleven-Twelve.

On this night, I will let you hold my wrists,
I believe they are tiny in the palms of your hands.
I am learning the shape of your lips as you kiss my knuckles,
the spots where strangers filled me to the brim with salt water.
The skin has turned plum colored, as if it knows it has been had.
Tonight there is no trespassing, there is no knowing, no insiders.
You choose not to be reckless, choose instead to take care.
Listen to the story of the ache between my ribs, where it all came undone.
See in this girl's spine where marrow once lived, now glass,
and you know there is no breaking her, not bone or heart.

May 17, 2011