I am told to grow a
backbone -

thicken my skin.

I forget about the burns
on my wrists,

branded by childhood fears
that never fade.

But you took my hands
into yours, stared into my eyes

at the witching hour. 4am is
when the ropes start to

bind. Black dust that fills my
lungs, like tar,

my rib cage shakes when
you circle my heart with

your finger. I was warned not
to give in too easily,

that head over feet, that heat
fizzled out and left you cold.

I do not need to be strong,
when I am held in

your arms, soft and
safe wrapped in the blanket of

your kiss