There is a tension in my chest.
Every sinew pulled tight
and I slap the strings like a bass
instead of the tender rub
of a violin’s bow. Your hands
are sweet, soft as petals,
resting on my hips the way
a good man does–
but your touch makes me itch.
I wretch at my hair, pull
at my skin–maybe I don’t know
the ways of a good man.
I keep waiting for heartache.
I’ll make my own heartache.

[ no prompt. I will catch up with two more tomorrow. ]