Hands too numb
To move anymore
Resting my head
On the inside shelf
Reflected in the plastic
High on the scent
Of must and dead butterflies
Breathe out hard
To fog up my reflection
I don't want to see myself

I always feared that when he touched me
he would draw back his hand in disgust.
Instead he holds me like old pages
chasing the foxes
he holds me like delicate lace
tracing each vine
and makes me feel rare
and beautiful.