We used to dance,
listening to the gypsy kings,
me balanced on your
tip-toes,
twirling round and round.

We used to dance.
Now we dance around the past.
We dance around your dances
with mama
dances that lasted hours.

Your dances were an elegant craft
one of contact,
a methodology so no one would see.
A dance so intricate,
people would bleed to see it,
you’d leave them breathless.

Arms outstretched,
fingers splayed,
across necks,
windpipes,
wrists,
and torsos.
You’d would dance with us.

A dance so different,
it morphed into
a normative form
of lies twisted
delicately around my feet,
like the phone cords
pulled from the walls.

Your delicate touch used to
twirl me,
spin me round.
It did just that,
in spun my life,
my thoughts,
my perceptions,
into a silk weave
of hate.

Anger.
Distrust.
A permanent form of
caution tape
weaving through my veins.
No one can pass.
You may not pass.
I won’t let you in.

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