There are hands all over me, searching for something I'm not sure I have to give, something that's no longer mine to give if it's even there at all
There are these scathing, tracing, imploring hands all the ******* time, and their grasp tightens when I pull away, whispering "what's the rush, sweetheart"
And then kissing my shoulders, my neck, my hands.
God, these hands. This burning.
There are hands that are constantly touching me where I can't even touch myself, where I can't even stand to look.
Don't touch my stomach. Don't touch my thighs. Don't touch my scars.
Just don't. *******. touch. me.
Please, just... please?
They're in my hair now, on my waist then
around my neck
And still they're always wanting more. What part wasn't enough, I wonder.
Or maybe it was just all of me. But I'm so soft.
I'm so beautiful.
I'm so ****.
So I go back then, shameful, shameless, so **** ashamed, back into the dark, caressing cold
To spend another night shaking in another pair of hands to hold me
Please, just.... please
Why can't anyone please just hold me?