And each breath.
Trapped in my head.

I feel it shaking head to toe,
why am I too young to know
the sharp knife in my throat?

Pull me in and throw it out,  
was I supposed to know
hands can’t forget?
So they wander far from here.

Guilty hands, guilty for not giving you what you wanted.
Who felt that?
Was it my fault that my thighs closed together?
That your hands made me sick,
crying,
for my body.