between the discovery of us and this moment,
a grotto was slowly building itself inside of your
ribcage. you told me you liked how i tickled the
inside of your stomach, and eventually you woke
up complaining about how my sharp fingernails
were scraping against your rough dry skin like
a chalkboard. from time to time, i feel her ghost
move in me like an unborn child thrashing in the
womb. her name alone impales this body like a
sharp kitchen knife into my stomach. that's why
i tremble at the mere thought of her voice: it is
like a fish hook with bait on the end. if i am god,
i am a forgiving god, but my hands tremble too
much even when i fervently show compassion.
my hands are not very careful with delicate things.

- kra