(there's something that steadily builds
in the bloodstream of a child with
a father who has the temper of a star
waiting to burst
and to become
mellow again
similar to death
but in silence)

when she touches me, my giving hands
grow cold

when she touches me, my shoulders turn
into themselves

when she touches me, my feet curl
with tension

when she touches me, my depleted body
turns away

her rancid, her caring, her belligerent, her sweet

her nothing

wishing for the strength to push her down

i hate her touching me
there's nothing more disingenuous or violent
than a hand, too hard, too open, too compensating

trying to touch you with warmth
that has been lacking for years

why touch me now if i know you hate me
                                                    (you don't hate me)
                                                    (but i hate you)