The first reality

what comes out is the line
she traces along the inside
of me though her touch is inevitable, to say that
perhaps destroys its beauty (for Some)

my life will be erased by those hands
the ones that Some would call
dead. Would call rubber. In the mornings it is
always the same, I am awoken from nightmares

by touch, I have been beaten all night, or drenched
in salt (preserve my hands) and the sun rises
and the raspberry leaves beckon
me into the kitchen