Cold sandpaper hands that shook with fright.
There was never anything inviting about your touch.
Harsh breath that moistened my skin as you lay on top of me;
I sometimes prayed it would drown me.
Before October I don’t remember.
Your few moments of satisfaction split me into two, now I’m lost-
desperately searching for the me that was before you.
I’m now starting to grasp the concept that I am forever left with the me that happened after.
Do you ever think of me?
I don’t know why the answer to that question is so important, But it is.
So answer me.
Do you ever think of me?
Do you ever think of my body squirming in the dark only to find itself succumbing to your demands?
Do you ever think of how far I came in those years?
I went from squirming to grinding because I learned how to survive someone like you.
It is what is is,
but don’t ever confuse “it” with love, passion, or lust.
“It” made me feel *****.
“It” made me feel wrong.
“It” is a dark, damp house on the coldest day of winter, and all I want to do is leave
but my body is stuck,
my body is paralyzed.
My body has forgotten how much it loves the warmth of the sun and taste of fresh air.
Instead I watch my breath as I breathe in what you breathed out-
my tears forgetting to fall,
as I no longer feel you.
They say getting the wind knocked out of you reminds our lungs how much they love the air.
But what if the air you are breathing is the same air you lost when you were kicked in the stomach?
“It” is the outline of a small hand in the dead of night, and no matter how much I stretch my small fingers my hand will never be wide enough to catch all the pain.
“It” can never be cleaned;
“It” is a stain on my mind; and no matter how much I scrub-it is still there.
I can cover “it” up; but I still know it’s there.
I still see you.
Have you ever felt so hollow you could hear the echoes of your soul crying every time you knocked?
My soul still cries to make you stop; please stop.
I can still taste the salt on your hands as you covered my mouth, I would sometimes wonder if I was tasting your sadness.
It’s the same thing I taste when I’m crying alone in the dark and I lick my lips.
I do that a lot you know.
Do you?
I don’t know if you ever think of me.
But I think of you.
You will always have a dark, cold home in my mind.
I hope you’re still cold.
I hope You’re still damp.
I hope you never find the light that will lead you back to your before.
I hope you forever wander in the dark,
forever seeing the outline of her small hand, and every time you reach to grab it you are always met with your own fist.
I hope you slowly die as your own breath fills your home in my mind; until you are left with nothing to breath but your own breath.
I hope you see the poetry in a death like that.