His voice is something I could
like a nightdress,
or a coma.
When his fingers brush my shoulders,
the feeling lingers.
His touch is a jet lag I can’t quite shake.
Veins have always terrified me,
but at night I find myself tracing the
purple lines on his forearms,
because they remind me of trails on a
I want to know where they lead.
I tell her, “He kills me in the best way.”
I mean, “I’m afraid I’ve already given him the gun.”