Implosion of inner demons.

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

back together.


Karen Hayward ©2016