She Could Never Hurt You

I never should have signed the first time.

Or the second,
or the third—
or any of times.

Or the last time.

Which was today—
which was this morning,
which was drunk with happiness and desire and hope.

She—
is a champagne coupe everyone tips to their lips—
luminous,
golden,
warm in your belly, crisp on your tongue.

Fragile.

Easily shattered.

You can walk barefoot through the shards,
feeling only pinpricks,
beading bloody footprints into delicate lace.

She could never hurt you. She never has.

You simply pour another glass
and cheers to her memory.

Wash the soles of your feet in champagne,
wipe them dry,
walk out clean.

The contract only lasts a day.

She can't sign again if she's broken—
if you break her hands—
she'll write poems about you in her head all night while she lies awake,
pondering what she ever needed hands for anyway.

Waiting for the pain to stop by counting in sets of 10 seconds—
1, 2, 3...