Love, Insecure

So, insecure, he loves and love
Is insecure, gives less than he expects.
– Auden

 There are splinters in your voice
that snap when you talk to me
as though the air could break
its tread upon them

and glass in your eyes
that could crack
as soon as you look
at me.

Your touches are as faint as dust against my skin,
making me question whether they were there at all,
making me afraid to stir in case they drift like snow.

Sometimes,
you treat me
like a prize
won in confusion.

Although there is certainty in my touch,
they only taste questions on your skin.

At night, I feel your glances like ghosts on my skin
and the footsteps of fear pacing your body
and think that this is how I see you:

trapped behind the cupboard doors of her memory,
glancing out at the happiness she hid from you like a child at a sweetshop,
unsure whether to trust the luck you’ve been given
or whether you should send it running so you won’t be tempted again.

© Keighley Perkins

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About handshedown

Keighley Perkins is a Cardiff-based poet whose influences include Anis Mojgani, Selima Hill and Richard Brautigan. Her work has previously been published in "Acumen", "Elbow Room", "Erbacce", "Fire", "Northwind" and "Obsessed with Pipework". She can also be found online on Twitter at @handshedown. View all posts by handshedown

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