You are under my skin like a snake.

You are under my skin like a snake.

You are under my skin

like a snake.

Cold scales trace

the geography of my ribs.

You write your name

in letters I cannot erase.

When I breathe

you slide between

the syllables of my sentences.

You whisper choices

into the hollow

where courage once lived.

Sometimes you warm,

and I almost

call it tenderness.

Sometimes you coil so tight

I forget

my own edges.

I have tried to burn you out

with light,

with loud songs.

You return,

patient as bad weather,

inevitable.

I prick my thumb

to see if you bleed,

but only my blood answers.

Your tongue tastes

of secrets

and broken promises.

You teach me fear

of the gentle things

that once kept me alive.

I measure my steps

to silence your hearing.

Night hides you,

faithful accomplice

to your trespass.

There are moments

I lean into the pressure

because it means

I am not alone.

There are mornings

I want to cut the map

and be blank again.

Still you move

beneath my laugh.

I press my palm to my chest

to check

I am still mine.