He said my touch was soft,

         Gentle, the hands of a babydoll.

But he didn’t know how much

         They shook. How come that

Didn’t leave a mark, didn’t

          Mar the skin with callauses?

They wrung themselves dry,

           Holding my head, pressed under

My legs--all to stop the constant

           Murmur of jangling keys that

Coursed through them.

They say our brains
Mature over the years.
But what if they only
Destroy themselves before
they can be fully formed?

I am drying paint.

I sit back and watch

Myself grow less glossy,

More dull and emotionless.