Pressure

The first time
he said "You're beautiful,"
I felt butterflies,
yellow and orange fluttering
on my arms.

When he said "I love you,"
I couldn't feel
my feet.

"Do you love me?"
he asks today, touching
my arm.

He strokes my
hand, and I become
all skin.

My skeleton, the interior
forms that hold me up,
softens into cream.

"If you love me,"
he whispers,
barely touching my
lips,
"trust me."

He wants to take me
down to another place,
dark, tangled,
private, just him and me,
"Trust me-
if you love me."

But I don't want to go there
yet. What if
I can't find my way back?



by Pat Mora, 2010