I like to crawl,
and curl,
into corners,
compact,
like a body,
of tension-
muscle failure,
I grow complacent and tired,
in this skin.

In this skin, my hands are thick and calloused,
fingers leaving imprints,
on guilty surfaces,

do not touch. do not touch.

But the needle on the spindle is so alluring,
My wrists are shaking,
I draw nearer, and closer,
just a prick on one finger,
and


Do not touch

At the cost
of
Absorbing poison,
that's the trade off
of returning to the scene of the crime.

And it's all a lie,
like the tango-dance sparring
between our eyes as we meet,
and I can't tell if you're genuine,
or if you can see me at all.

And perhaps I fall far too easily,
for the traps that I set for myself,
when I'd like to think that I'm stealth,
but I'm clumsy after all.

But I can't keep reaching,
for the hands that are not outstretched,
because as soon as I think that I have your hand clasped in mine,
your apathetic grip will loosen
and
you'll let me drop.

And I can't do this.

Girls can only break so many times,
before the bones turn brittle,
and everything shatters.
Girls parts sprawled everywhere,
like confetti on the floor.

And though it is tempting
to walk across
log-bridges,
through deep waters,
for the thrill of near falling,
I can't take this anymore.

And if it's the choice between
you
and the prospect
of bruised egos,
I'm not so sure if I'll willing,
to take
another fall.

I give up.