Fingers Poem by Cat Singh

I shot awake like the popping of a gun,
eyes bugging out of my head.
There was something inside me,
in the pockets of my body, in my body,
in me— in me—
I didn't feel the gasp ghosting up out of me,
but I did hear the sharp air
cutting through the scene and into my lungs
like a knife.
It was his fingers I suppose
—in me—
his fingers like shards of glass.

We were both young still: freshly dating teens.
We were unmapped worlds.
We were uncharted lands.
We were so so new at this,
and my just-ripened body didn't know
what to do with something inside it.
The unknown feels a lot like pain;
the unexpected is a twisting of the blade.

I became a small dog in that moment:
little yelps and shakes
strewn all over the room.
But it was fine, I suppose.
He said he didn't mean it.
He said he didn't know.
He said— he said—

I fell back asleep with his arms around me.
I wasn't sure when the pain and fear
would sneak up on me again.
In me—
Into me—
In my body—

He folded himself around me like a cocoon.
Our minuscule figures
morphed into one another.
It felt like a cage,

like a noose.