There is a part of me
so hidden, that a gentle
coaxing of a finger
is as meaningless to it
as a single stone that falls
in a storm

in its silence,
I grow,
weaker

I am shattered, like glass
surrounded now
with splinters

after all these years, I am
still trying to wash it
away

the constant splashing
of water on my
face

does nothing to cool it

hipbones echoing,
hollow and
weak

the taste of his lips
on my lips
has lingered

like a secret,
I drink it, deep
down into my
throat

consuming me

(and only me)