No
No matter how gently
she places her hand
on his chest,
his skin cries
that he has been slapped.
For a while,
she did not feel
her own welts
as deeply as the wounds
she imagined beneath
his surface – fishooks
left carelessly inside him.
For a while,
she only felt safe
pulling him closer,
wondering how safe
was so painful.
No is a circle
you draw around yourself.
It is the lonely pupil
in an unblinking eye.
She is surprised
at how dark it is,
and how calm,
behind the thinnest sheen
of still air.
He looks distant,
but clearer. She wonders
if she looks different
to him, more like
someone else. A girl
in a melancholy song.
A name in past tense.
She was never safe
from what she feared the most.
No is mapping the borders
around your heart,
choosing to see
when someone
has left it.
She is waiting,
hoping he will recognize her
hand lingering in space –
not grasping for,
but welcoming,
touch.