He traces my skin with a teaspoon,
having covered my eyes.
I finish telling the story of my life. Now it is his turn.
He has covered my eyes so that
I imagine the story he is going to tell and he has tied me here so that
I prove how blindly I believe in him, that I know he is no killer, that
I trust he will not hurt me.
But I do not trust him.
And so I shake when he traces my body with a knife and tells me
it is a teaspoon.