Parenthetical

I am. Little fingers under your clothes. Touching places no one does. Rearranging scarred skin. To expose. Forgotten openings. I am. Blood. Hard that softens. Bones healed that still ache.

The pretty molecules of carbon that make your lips soft. The enzymes that foul your body while you sleep. I am free. Like you are. To ruin everything.

I am. The sweet kiss of sleep as it pretend to hear your dreams. The fantasy of feeling that each finger contends. As your body tells you different. The whimsy of gods forged in flesh. The euphemism of heaven riddling in moist underwear.

I know what you are. And are not. Clever devils market their hells accordingly. I saw her. Red riding hood. Talking with the wolf. Explaining what he'd done with grandma. I still have her picnic basket. All the little morsels no one could eat.

I was there. When the bears found Goldilocks sleeping in their bed. Made her their crunchy lollipop.

I am. I was. Every channel. Every broadcast. The world climbing that rope in gym class. Everyone watching. Then it was over.

And even shame was a luxury.