i’d began to mourn a part of me,
a part of me that had decayed for so long
revived in spite but never to stay
destined to die for much longer.
then there was him.
a boy who had as
much love to give as i
and finally that part of me was alive.
the hole began to fill,
blood formed
skin healed.
left only a scar on skin he would kiss.
a kiss with a meaning,
a kiss without sin.
as for once a touch made me feel holy.
and the touch came from a boy so pure,
skin like satin and the presence of angels
my saving grace.
dug up my grave crawled inside
and told me i’d be окау.

the bath soap scent from my childhood.
the one my mother
would bring home every sunday;
for me to wash but never feel clean.
it stings,
but no longer seeps into cuts like antiseptic.
it smells like sorrow,
loneliness, and pain
yet the scent on my skin doesn’t make me sad.
i think of the girl and what the girl would think of me.
how far we’ve come;
and how we share the same scent on older skin.

and under the eyes of god he takes me
he kisses the skin crafted by angels
tainted by men
and tastes the sweet suckle honey
from between my hips
all of which makes me holy
he traces and kisses with a sharp tongue
and licks up red wine spilt fresh on my satin sheets
he wipes my tears with razor blades
in hope to see something virtuous

my sins rot my innocent flesh
even god can’t save me now
i pray and pray and pray and pray
my knees raw from the bloodied cobblestone tiles
my tears are no longer righteous
my mother told me
when god doesn’t answer, be one
but how can i be a god
when behind my eyes all i see is darkness
though red wine spills out my mouth and veins
and men take their portions of my body
the hole of which my soul once stored faith
shelters the cold empty remains of
what once was

and i hope for the child
who is no longer a child
who is now older than her abuser
to mourn the child inside her that doesn’t stop crying for salvation
to no longer feel his touch
through each hand to explore her body
to feel clean when she scrubs
her skin til it’s raw
to put down the blade before
it opens her up to so much more
i think about her when i bleed
though i don’t bleed for the same reasons now

and here i am,
cleaning myself off my bathroom tiles
in attempt to try again.
but trying again isn't as easy the 4th time around.
i want to be a kid again.
but even at 9 and 10,
11 to 16
being a kid became an adults job.
looking after myself and cleaning the dishes of uneaten food,
cleaning wounds and kissing plasters like my own mother.
i'll be okay.
that's what i'll always say,
and i guess when you say it enough
the lies become the truth
and my eyes blink away my youth.
here i am
cleaning myself off the bathroom tiles
knowing that i have to try again.

so call me tonight.
lets sing the songs of summer romances
and make plans we'll never follow through.
listen to me pluck the chords of this scratched up acoustic,
humming the lyrics that only i know apply to you