He says he prefers me with my back to him,
the broken curve of my spine all that's there
to sing my vulnerability.

My body is something painted by an artist
when he wasn't looking, with ocean-blue veins
for all the world to see.

He says he'd drown me in those veins if he could.
I'm no fluffed baby bird, no fine china teacup,
but perhaps I will be.

He brings his hammer down hard enough to
break the backs of mountains, and I am
no more mountain than bird.

Ocean-blue veins and white sea-foam skin.
A paper-delicate creature who won't breathe
for fear of tearing.

I was once braver than the colour of blood.
Now I'm wrapped in a cracking brown crust
that crushes my heart.

He was going to be my summer, and summer
is a haven for souls unclaimed by winter.
My summer is a battleground.

My ocean is drying up, but my skies are
saturated more brightly than ever,
swollen to ugly hues.

He is everything; whole and strong and solid,
and I am a scared child in the darkness.
*I am always so scared.