You broke your wrist the first time we met,
grabbing out for my hand so fast that your knucklebones
cracked and your carpals shattered.
There was no blood, there was no bruising,
but there were the sharp slivers of your bone pressing
into my palm as you said “hold this,
don’t break it.”
And, oh, God, I could not understand,
for the life of me, why you did that. Why you cracked
your wristbones in two before slipping
our fingers together and saying “please do not,
please do not break these bones of mine.”
I could not break your bones –
You were shattered before I held you.