I am afraid that the space between heartbeats means nothing.
Your fingers are hooks in my ribs pulling me up, and up.
To everyone else it looks like I am an angel ascending and you are god,
divine, loving and all consuming.
But the hooks are knives that tear me apart
and my ascent makes me feel like a fish that's about to be gutted.
I was silly enough to think god meant love.

So I twisted and thrashed against sandpaper fingers,
and got thrown back into cool water,
soothing my skin , regrowing my scales.
There’s another now,
and his touch is tender,
his touch is kinder.
Less like a hook and more like kiss but,
I don’t know what to do with these cotton fingers on my skin.
Soft is a sensation that is foreign to me like water so hot it feels cold.

I’m just afraid that love means ripping myself open,
with no knowledge on how to stitch myself back up again.