Forward steps are measured in inches-
Every foot an insurmountable goal.
You drag yourself along
Every effort bringing new pain.

A backward step is a mile.
And it doesn't even hurt. Actually,
It's like a hit during rehab
And it feels just right.

But then you breathe it back out.
Too late - the buzz in your veins.
You know you shouldn't have...
But it feels. so. good.

Your vision clears
You hate yourself.
Your bruises haven't healed
from last time
And
Here you are.

Starting over.
      Inch
             by
                 *inch.

Papers.* So many pages, fluttered away and crinkled to nothing in my hurried attempt at organization. Words. The perfect excuse, or was it an explanation? Inches. Of progress, of circumference, of motivation.

Boyfriends. Because confidence isn't my strong suit, never mind my reputation. Jobs. Because compromise is my weak spot, regardless of my education.

Myself. Because pleasing him was my preoccupation.

My favorite time of day is
the quiet of the morning in
the space between our pillows
(when my heart wakes up and
chooses you again).

Warm air licks the mirror.
Steam sticks, lingers.
Your arms wrap around my waist
My heart sinks.

You rise slowly against my back
Kiss down the shivers in my neck.

My eyes lock on your eyelids-
Closed so you'll see him.

Your hand slides up my back
To shove me forward.
You guide yourself
Although you're always a little off.

I can feel our height difference
in your muscle memory.