predisposition

The picture I send him of my family

and my sister is so beautiful, so

full of life, full of flesh –

years later and her wrist

will fit between my thumb and

forefinger, a tiny circle

that says, this history repeats.

In the bed we share I hold up

that circle for them to see, angry;

so tautly held, I am

untouchable, for I would either

break or break them if I

ever let go.

In this bed which is empty

except in morning fantasy, I

learn how to relax into

the pleasant pain of hunger,

like aching to be touched by him.

I try not to pathologize a

skipped meal or three. I

try not to thumb my fingers,
think this history repeats.