the ridges of your fingerprints
were razors. my skin
is still torn from where
you touched me.
and I became porous
and soaked up your toxins
when I should have let you run
off my shoulders,
because you were candle flame.
you used up the last
of my oxygen, and
you made me a moth in a bell jar.
and the burns may not
be healed yet, but I
have stored up oceans
in my hands now.
I am armed and I
am no longer so
very afraid
of you.
No comments:
Post a Comment