He's taken to touching lightly my stomach and joking at its most terrifying ability. I've never seen beyond its banal responsibility to digest a day or give flight to an impulse, the follow through of butterfly's wings which met us. I try to picture the power my anatomy shares. I'm stuck on my body, how we've communicated in betrayal. Exchanged pain between us so I can't see the agreement to make good on its potential. My mother called it an effortless action, that gave me the shape of my eyes. I'm terrified for what I might give away. Effortlessly dispose. Who trusts someone so unsure of their bones?