Sometimes I like to hold my own hand. I like to hold it/ in a way a lover may. & i realise.
my hands are so small and delicate why don't I have somones hand to hold? Better yet, why do I invite literally anyone to break my hands?
When I look at my hands I see every memory of every boy I have loved. I see the very moment I held a man's hand.
How the spaces between our fingers fit perfectly, in harmony with one another. How we shared a very special moment before our lips met in the dark of a theatre surrounded by other experienced lovers and we just looked like kids.
You could've snapped my wrists, it would've been so easy to bruise me but you didn't. You were kind, you were gentle.
You were kind.
You were gentle
But now when I reach for your hands/ because let's face it my hands have such a great memory and they know every curve and nook of your palm. Your palm is empty.
I reach and I stretch so far but you keep on walking and I barely get to brush your hand.
Then the question lingers/ so thick I could cut it with a knife.
Have you forgotten me already?
Forgotten the passionate night spent searching for our intertwined fingers that wrap themselves in knots/the very same that stroked my hair so sweetly until I fell asleep/that held me so tightly as you whispered my name to calm my nightmares
These memories. They're trapped in my skin and you the culprit/placed them there so gently. Rattling like bees and I want to them free.
So I cut myself open and watch as every piece of you leaks out me.
No doubt my hands have only suppressed it's muscle memory. and if they saw you again, they'd wander around you.
They'd know, the shape to take as they patiently wait for your hands to learn the curve of my waist.
