wheni take his hand,
cracked dry,
to dance,
i accidentally squeeze the knuckles he's
torn open and let bleed.
he winces:
i don't know how to do this,
s
pins me around.
me neither.

on the couch,
does not mind ifi lay my head on his.
laughs when my laugh busts.
talks me out of it, the opposite,
the balance.

c'mon, sis, i'll tuck you in bed.
no.
don't leave.
the arms around me last time

slip for a second to my waist
but it's not til the morning thati cry.
hoping, though the scars remain,
that

the hands are not
bleeding
anymore