DON'T LET HIM TOUCH YOU.
his hands are stained with history,
a softness already spilled,
tenderness that dripped into someone else’s skin
before it ever reached me.
it isn’t just a body he pressed against,
it’s the devotion he swore was mine
but it seems like
it had already been rehearsed.
every kiss i imagine
is a repetition,
a shadow of a shadow.
what is left for me?
if his lips already knew the map of another face?
the thought rots in me.
it grows claws in my stomach,
it curls into disgust so sharp
i wish to recoil from his arms.
my brain screams:
DON’T LET HIM ANY CLOSER,
he’s contaminated with loss.
i try to breathe,
to tell myself love isn’t rationed,
his isn’t a one-time currency already spent.
but my body doesn’t believe me.
it writhes at the memory of them.
it trembles at their connection.
the way he once held her
means the way he holds me
is counterfeit.
i want to claw their kiss
out of my memory.
i want to bleach his past
until it’s blank.
but when he speaks to me,
i remember her
burned into my recollection.
like a painful souvenir.
his tenderness feels borrowed,
as if he’s lending me scraps of a script
that was written before i arrived.
and always,
i stay.
even while disgust coils like smoke in my chest,
even as i ache to scream:
DON’T TOUCH ME.
..your love is secondhand.
because beneath the agony,
there is a quieter wound:
a fear that there is nothing original left,
that his devotion was a candle
already melted for someone else.
i am terrified
that all i continue to taste
are the ashes.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 8:24 PM UTC
DON'T LET HIM TOUCH YOU.
his hands are stained with history,
a softness already spilled,
tenderness that dripped into someone else’s skin
before it ever reached me.
it isn’t just a body he pressed against,
it’s the devotion he swore was mine
but it seems like
it had already been rehearsed.
every kiss i imagine
is a repetition,
a shadow of a shadow.
what is left for me?
if his lips already knew the map of another face?
the thought rots in me.
it grows claws in my stomach,
it curls into disgust so sharp
i wish to recoil from his arms.
my brain screams:
DON’T LET HIM ANY CLOSER,
he’s contaminated with loss.
i try to breathe,
to tell myself love isn’t rationed,
his isn’t a one-time currency already spent.
but my body doesn’t believe me.
it writhes at the memory of them.
it trembles at their connection.
the way he once held her
means the way he holds me
is counterfeit.
i want to claw their kiss
out of my memory.
i want to bleach his past
until it’s blank.
but when he speaks to me,
i remember her
burned into my recollection.
like a painful souvenir.
his tenderness feels borrowed,
as if he’s lending me scraps of a script
that was written before i arrived.
and always,
i stay.
even while disgust coils like smoke in my chest,
even as i ache to scream:
DON’T TOUCH ME.
..your love is secondhand.
because beneath the agony,
there is a quieter wound:
a fear that there is nothing original left,
that his devotion was a candle
already melted for someone else.
i am terrified
that all i continue to taste
are the ashes.
i firmly believe im being made to look like a fool.
however, i love you the same
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