My Wrist Is Watery And Blue Poem by Delilah Miller

The thin skin
of my wrist and palm
looks like silk,
a layer or two.
It's only silk, or sheer cotton
wrapped over pulsing
veins and muscle tissue.

Sometimes, he kisses my wrist,
noticing the blue etching,
the smooth raised lines
and the frailty it points to.

Tracing the contours,
the watery, fragility of my skin
I run it down his dark, tight arm.
He tucks me into his chest,
assuring me of his true penchant.
I forgive him.
With skin like this,
he could doubt my strength and virtue.
This skin, the control of it,
had made him as weak and indifferent
as when my wrist moves with his.