By day, your hands have been kind, washing the peaches before I eat because you know I love the skin. I remember times you touched the skin of my open hand so tenderly I could barely feel it. Though you sometimes forget your strength, squeezing my shoulder too hard in affection, twisting my fingers in your own too tightly, by day, your hands have been safe. But at night, your hands feel ready to steal my sex, driver’s license, pictures of old lovers stuffed behind credit cards, evidence of my life. “The art of seduction is luring someone to bed who doesn’t want to be lured,” you say, but when your hands begin to move inside me I feel you trying to pry me apart like a shell, to find whatever pearl is here and claim it, to understand the mysteries that keep a thin blade of air between our backs each night. So when you lay your heavy body over mine in a night so dark I’m scared to sleep alone, your fingers crawl inside like spiders, and I feel them feeding off me, as when I first learned things I couldn’t see made their living off my flesh, then went outside, forgetting my shoes, and felt the worms imbed their hooks in my feet, and I knew, no matter what medicine I took, I’d never get them out — they found their way into my skin, they never let go.