Under your thumb,
wrapped around your finger.
Not because you want it that way but
because you thought it would be safer
because they said so;
Nape grazed by knuckles
it’s colder than you expect
under a street lamp and
worse, the darkness between street lamps
footsteps behind you
Where are you going with this?
You just want to go home.
Sweaty leather in your palm –
a trip you took once, a souvenir
of a place you wanted to go so much
you didn’t mind when you got somewhere else.
Remember that, remember how that felt.
Teeth cutting into your skin; why?
Maybe there are no footsteps,
maybe everything echoes in your head,
maybe what unlocks your secrets
can’t also be what shields them.
No one thing is enough;
nothing is enough.
Do you hold the keys or
are you grasping at straws?
After this we can talk about "clutch".
tuckova 
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