Your skin is dry and brittle
it snags against the fabric
as you run your hand up and
down. I barely feel your touch
but the pang of skin is deafening.
I want to scream. I want to cry.
I want to hide so far in the darkness
and allow myself to fall apart, disperse
into atoms as you rotate your hand in
long movements up and down.
I wonder what it is your doing,
caressing my leg or the dry
brittle skin on your hand.
Either way I must now piece myself
Karen Hayward ©2016