I felt the steel toe of your boot.
It was uncomfortable, pressing
itself into the soft center of my foot.
You wrapped your arms around my waste.
I looked away, shaking my head, as
if I’d wake up from the nightmare I
was re-living. You rocked your feet
back and forth, as we began to spin.
I felt the earth disappear from underneath
my feet, as the clouds grew thick into
our breath. Spinning, like a dancer in
a music box, stuck on repeat. I shook
my head again, awaking to an empty bed.
Tears had flooded the pits of my eye
sockets, running down the curve of my 
cheek as I blinked my eyelids, adjusting 
the lens of my ocular canal to the darkness
of the air around me. 3:30 am. I can’t
keep re-living this. I can’t shake it.
What would he say? “I’m not like him.”?
Of course you’re not. I know that.
I KNOW. But the recollection of these
images is such a destructive activity.
I told him I couldn’t dance, and never have.
Do I dare speak of these, knowing it
would crush him? Do I dare disturb ever
inch of happiness drenching my soul?
Nighttime creeps in slowly, and I pray for
peace and comfort only He can provide.