I want to write about hands;
How they grip my throat
And squeeze my lungs
Whenever we make love.

I want to write about burning;
On my body, in my stomach,
Everywhere you touch;
And how it feels wrong.

I want to write about control;
How I feel I have none,
Especially when we become one,
And you’re doing everything I say I love.

I want to write about death;
The death of my innocence,
Of my childhood,
Of my spirit.

I want to write about molestation;
How the word screams at me from inside,
Pours out of my veins,
Makes me choke on my words when I’m around you.

I want to write about coping,
Because that’s all I know how to do.
I learn to love my submission,
Your hands, the burn, my death.

I want to write;
For it’s all I have left.
Something I control,
And something that makes me feel alive.