girls
who write about boys that can pin you down with their stare,
have fingers made of daggers
and even if they are drowning in oceans,
scattered enough that they can not cling to each other like a lifeline,
they will cut themselves gills
and swim until they forget what it’s like to not;
they are made of daggers
because boys like that are a type of poison
that ruins you so fast
and stains the inside of your skin
that makes you burn if anyone else tries to touch you

these girls know that skin can be infinite,
and forced upon yours like a messy graft
by someone who doesn’t even know your last name;
something as personal
and delicate as your skin
suddenly feels tight
and there is not enough, because skin can also be the size of a thumbnail
that any boy can twist
and break however he sees fit

there is something unfamiliar about your own body
which has grown with you longer than anyone,
once it has shrunk down to half its size
because suddenly
the birthmark on your hip feels ugly and foreign
like an intruder that has no business touching your hips
forcing his hands into your skin
your birthmark is tainted by his hands
and it is him
and your chest feels unnatural
like you hadn’t noticed before
but it is hugging you too tightly
and sticking to your body
even though it is your body;
this isn’t your body

it doesn’t matter if he butters you up first
and makes you feel lucky you can wear this skin
or if he immediately pulls it off
without even trying to convince you to let him
there is nothing remotely comforting about taking it back
once it has touched his bones
it never sits the same atop your bruised soul

but no matter how much it may hurt
for your bare hands to touch anything
you pick up a pen
and you put it to a piece of paper;
the ink bleeds until you lift it off
and there is a power in controlling a bleeding
so much like the one in your heart
there is a power in holding a pen
and finding your hand steady
the stillness so alien now, but welcome

and you may not know it,
but it takes a particular bravery that does not grow within all hearts
to write things you couldn’t admit even to yourself
to yield all your control to a pen
and make yourself vulnerable to it
is both weakness, and strength,
softness, and rigidity;
you are irrevocably damaged, skin and bones,
but you are not broken
and so you write

you write him death threats,
composed of ugly words that match his face
and you tell him he didn’t deserve to touch you,
you now realise he didn’t deserve to touch you,
and you write your mother;
it does not matter what you write her
because you are finally breaking a hard crust that has covered your heart for so long
and the ink mixes with tears
and when you read your poems aloud
you heal a little more;
your words used to be guarded
stiff, no matter how fluid you tried to make your writing
but now that your skin sits easier,
the words lounge across the lines
and it is unimaginably beautiful that anything that profound came out of you

girls
who write about boys that can pin you down with their stare,
have fingers made of daggers
and hearts made of steel
whether they ever heal completely,
if they can heal completely,
they have swum to shore
across miles of water that was made to drag them down,
and found soft sand that pillows their bruised skin;
there is pain
and there may always be pain in being
but there is also warmth
and comfort
and a sweet ache in your muscles now that they have finally
stopped
i promise you,
you can rest easy here
this is a safe haven in which you do not need to worry about him
or any other boy
because you found it in you to swim far enough to get here
and that is much more powerful
than any force he could muster up within him
to convince you
you aren’t worth the skin you wear;
the beautiful, soft skin
that hugs you just tightly enough
finally belongs on your body again.