Hands

I feel hands on my body.

Gripping my chest, pulling my skin

they tear and yank at me.

Begging for more, looking to go deeper,

they hurt as they make their way down my torso.

I don't know these hands.

​

They’re rough and unfamiliar

they have no warmth,

There’s no love in these touches.

I try to hold them

to force them to love me.

​

I need them,

I need the gripping, the pulling, the biting sting as his nails bore holes into me.

I love these rough, terrible, unfamiliar hands on my body.

Can I make them stay?

Could I ask for more?

​

I’ve never known soft touches.

Never felt a gentle caress, a kind graze of the skin.

I’m not sure if I would even want that now.

Not when I could have this,

not when I could be this.

​

Can you see them?

Are you watching my skin give, making room for them in my body?

Do you see the blood spilling around us as a smile grows on my face?

​

I hate myself for loving these hands.

For loving the ones before them, eager for the ones to come.

My organs fall out and he takes them in his hands.

He pulls and tugs at them, like a child on a puppy's ears.

They’re his, if he wants them. He can have it all.

I want to give it away.

​

Is it wrong to want to be rid of all these parts of me?

I don’t know,

I’ll decide in the morning if it was too much.

I’ll take stock of what’s left, if there’s anything at all.

I’ll look at my body, and in place of the hands

I will pull and tug at my skin.

​

I’ll wonder if I was enough for him,

if I was enough for any of them.

​

My body feels wrong without hands on it.

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