And after
the last time you touched me, I
used up a whole bar of soap, looking
for some trace of what used to
be clean. And after
the last time you touched
me, I would sit, huddled
against the cold plaster of our tub
after all the water had run
down the drain, shivering, for hours
and my family yelled
that I was in the bathroom for
too long. And after
the last time you touched me, my skin
was not my own, and it fit
in a way that I couldn't ever
name, in a way that made me sick
to my stomach until nausea painted
the walls of my mind and faded
into the background of my story.
And after the last time you
touched me, I wondered if I would ever
be good enough for someone or
anyone, ever again. And after the
last time you touched me I
would stare at the mirror and wonder how
such a healthy exterior
could ever be so hollow.
After the last time you touched me
and scooped out everything inside
I never thought to blame you-
after all, after everything,
I invited you in.