I've been thinking about you more than I have for a long time.
Maybe it's the time of the year, maybe it's because my veins hurt.
But my fingers have been drawn to the magnetic nature of your souvenirs,
Tracing, circling, the bumps and rough, white patches of skin.
It becomes a meditative ritual, it calms my breath
Until I realise I'm touching you, touching me,
And I freeze.
And I hate myself.
And I forget that I have skin, because suddenly all I can feel
Are your fingerprints on me like stamps on a book, library property.
Or branding cattle, but farmers don't eat their own livestock.
For as close as we got, I still don't know how much you learned about me.
I'm not sure why you didn't rip a hole in my chest
And ****** into my heart to get more closely acquainted with me.
Maybe that would've just been too much of my DNA to deal with.
Perhaps you had a busy schedule and couldn't take long showers.
I had no life, though, so I could spend hours washing away the blood.
It didn't take more than a few seconds, but I tried to be thorough.
The water poured down on me for so long
That it opened up the scabs on my hands,
And that's why I've got keloid scars, from sores that ran so deep
That the nerves are permanently damaged.
Maybe that one isn't your fault,
I'm probably being too harsh on you there.
But it hurts me, and you hurt me, and your comrades hurt me
Just so you could pretend you never heard me.
And now, like my nerves, I am permanently damaged, bound by harmful ritual,
Doomed to be the serpent trying to swallow his tail.