The love of your touch.
I imagined your hands.
As if they were a part of me.
That they would slowly sink into my flesh.
The warmth.
The essence.
The sense of existence.
So soft.
Pure.
They take hold of me.
No longer sensing two beings, but the semblance of one.
I feel at balance.
That somewhere I was missing a part of my body.
That I had long last lost.
When we are no longer touching.
I feel as if I have just been through surgery.
That some piece of me has been cut out.
That strongly I have the urge to be touched by you; again.
My insides scream for me to find, you.
My lungs tell me that there is no oxygen.
That I must find, you to breathe.
My liver tells me that there is too much alcohol in my blood.
I must find, you to filter out the pain.
My stomach twists as it screams for food.
I must find, you to motivate me to eat.
My whole body is tearing itself apart.
For just one more touch.
But I know better than to go back.
I cry and miss those hands.
My brain whispers to never let them touch again.
Never let them abuse.
Don't let those hands crush anymore.
They controlled.
Your lungs do not gasp for air out of love.
But because those hands were rapped around your throat.
Those hands brought all the alcohol into your veins;
So you could not resist.
Only yourself can filter out the pain.
Your stomach does not twist for them
Not out of hunger, but the sickness that the medicine brings.
These flowers next to the bed calling me dear.
Will not bring me back to those hands.