How Thin

Someone grabbed my wrist at the coffee shop

to get my attention, their thumb pressed

against the soft inside where the bone drops

close to the surface. I felt addressed.

The vein was visible, blue-green and small,

the way it only shows when you're cold

or scared or both. I felt the wall

of how easy I would be to hold.

I didn't pull away fast enough.

Or maybe I pulled away too slow.

Their grip was warm. Their grip was rough

enough to let me finally know

how fragile the soft parts are,

how little it takes for someone to find

exactly where I bear my scar,

exactly what I've left behind.

I've been feeling it since—

not the pressure, but the after-thought,

the way a touch can make you sense

how easily you could be caught.