when the hands of a chosen,
gentle lover
are not the first you have felt.
you flinch at the signs of intimacy.

because we are animals
with broken bones
mended with welded thoughts
and who cower at the idea of fracture.

because we are flowers
with plucked petals
striking with jagged thorns
and whose blossoms are choked by thistles.

because we are butterflies
with shredded wings
hesitantly fluttering with fear
and who are bodied by the terrible wind.

and alas
we wander
we grow
and we fly.